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POETRY  OF  THE  YEAR. 


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I 


POETRY  OF  THE  YEAR: 


PASSAGES  FROM  THE  POETS 


easons. 


ELEGANTLY  ILLUSTRATED 


PHILADELPHIA: 
PUBLISHED  BY  E.  H.  BUTLER  &  CO. 

1865. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1856,  by 

B.  H.  BTJTLO.  A  CO., 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


Contents. 


THE  POETEY  OF  SPRING. 

MM 

SPRING, HEMANS, 19 

THE  MAT-BUSH, SPENSER, 23 

SPRING, EARL  OF  SURREY,    .     .  24 

ON  MAT  MORNING, MILTON, 25 

CHILDREN  IN  SPRING, CLARE, 26 

DAT  :  A  PASTORAL, JOHN  CUNNINGHAM,      .  27 

CORINNA'S  GOING  A  MAYING,  .     .     .  HERRICK 29 

THE  PRIMROSE, CLARE, 33 

A  TRIBUTE  TO  MAY, ROSCOE, 34 

THE  WOODLAND  IN  SPRING,      .     .     .  COWPKR, 35 

BREATHINGS  OF  SPRING,      ....  HEMANS, 36 

EARLY  SPRING, THOMSON, 39 

A.  WALK  BY  THE  WATER,     ....  CHARLOTTE  SMITH,       .  40 

JOY  OF  SPRING, LEIGH  HUNT,      ...  41 

THE  NIGHTINGALE  AT  EVE,      .     .     .  COLERIDGE,    ...  42 

BEES  AND  BUTTERFLIES,      .          .     .  CLARE, 44 

THE  ANGLER'S  WISH,     .               .     .  IZAAK  WALTON,  ...  45 


xiv  CONTENTS. 

PAQl 

APRIL, SHAKSPEARE,     ...  46 

MAY, CLABK .47 

SPRING  MORNING, MOIR,  .......  48 

SABBATH  MORNING, GRAHAME,      ....  49 

THE  WONDERS  OF  THE  LANE,  .     .     .  ELLIOTT, 50 

SPRING  POINTING  TO  GOD,  ....  BRUCE, 52 

EFFECTS  OF  SPRING, WILSON, 53 

THE  MEADOW HURDES 65 


THE  POETRY  OF  SUMMER. 

REPOSE  IN  SUMMER TENNYSON,     ....  59 

SUMMER  REVERIE, KEATS 60 

THE  BROOK  IN  SUMMER,      ....     HOWITT, 66 

SHEPHERD  AND  FLOCK, THOMSON, 67 

SONNET  ON  COUNTRY  LIFE,  ....     KEATS, 68 

MORNING  IN  SUMMER, THOMSON, 69 

THE  WILD  BRAMBLES ELLIOTT, 70 

EVENING  VISIT  TO  WINDERMERE,      .  WORDSWORTH,    ...  72 

SUNRISE  ABOVE  THE  CLOUDS,  .     .     .  LONGFELLOW,      .         .  72 

THE  FOREST  STREAM, GRAHAME,      ....  74 

SUMMER  EVE, KIRKE  WHITE,    ...  75 

LEAFY  JUNE, WEBBE, 78 

THE  RAIN, LONGFELLOW,      ...  78 

A  SUMMER  LANDSCAPE, COWPER, 83 

A  JUNE  DAY, HOWITT, 84 

THE  COUNTRY  WALK,     .         ...     DYER, 86 


CONTENTS.  XV 

THE  POETRY  OF  AUTUMN 

FAOI 

HARVEST-HOMH, MILLER, 91 

HARVEST-FIELD,  .......  THOMSON, 92 

AUTUMNAL  MORNING, LONGFELLOW,      .          .     93 

BEAUTIES  OF  AUTUMN, WILCOX, 95 

THE  GIPSY  ENCAMPMENT COWPER, 96 

NUTTING, WORDSWORTH,    ...     97 

SERENITY  OF  AUTUMN,    .....  THOMSON, 99 

TEARS, TENNYSON,     ....  101 

A  DAY  IN  AUTUMN, ,  SOUTHEY, 101 

MOUNTAIN  SCENE, JAGO, 102 

To  A  WILD  DEER, WILSON 105 

AUTUMN, KEATS, 106 


THE  POETRY  OF  WINTER. 

WINTER, THOMSON, Ill 

FARM- YARD  IN  WINTER,      ....  BLOOMFIELD,  .     .     .     .112 

FROST, PHILLIPS, 114 

SNOW, COWPER, 115 

FODDERING  CATTLE, COWPER, 116 

SKATING WORDSWORTH,    .     .     .116 

REFLECTIONS  UPON  WINTER,    .     .     .     SOUTHEY, 118 

THE  REDBREAST THOMSON, 120 

THE  WOODMAN,     .......     COWPER, 121 

A  WINTER  WAIK LONGFELLOW,      .     .     .  122 


xvi  CONTENTS. 

PAGl 

WINTER'S  FROST, THOMSON, 124 

WINTER  TRIUMPHANT, BRAINARD,     ....  125 

THE  SNOW-CLOGGED  WAIN,      .     .     .  COWPER, 125 

WINTER, SHAKSPEARE,      .     .     .  126 

WINTER  SERENADE WORDSWORTH,    .     .     .  127 


THE 


POETRY  OF  SPUING. 


THE  POETRY  OF  SPUING. 


SPRING. 

I  COME  !  I  come  !  ye  have  called  me  long — 
I  come  o'er  the  mountains  with  light  and  song ! 
Ye  may  trace  my  step  o'er  the  wakening  earth 
By  the  winds  which  tell  of  the  violet's  birth, 
By  the  primrose-stars  in  the  shadowy  grass, 
By  the  green  leaves  opening  as  I  pass. 

I  have  breathed  on  the   South,  and   the   chestnut- 
flowers 

By  thousands  have  burst  from  the  forest-bowers, 
And  the  ancient  graves  and  the  fallen  fanes 
Are  veiled  with  wreaths  on  Italian  plains ; — 
But  it  is  not  for  me,  in  my  hour  of  bloom, 

To  speak  of  the  ruin  or  the  tomb  ! 

(19) 


20  SPRING. 

I  have  looked  on  the  hills  of  the  stormy  North, 

And  the  larch  has  hung  all  his  tassels  forth, 

The  fisher  is  out  on  the  sunny  sea, 

And  the  reindeer  bounds  o'er  the  pastures  free, 

And  the  pine  has  a  fringe  of  softer  green, 

And  the  moss  looks  bright  where  my  foot  hath  been. 

I  have  sent  through  the  wood-paths  a  glowing  sigh, 
And  called  out  each  voice  of  the  deep  blue  sky ; 
From  the  night  bird's  lay  through  the  starry  time, 
In  the  groves  of  the  soft  Hesperian  clime, 
To  the  swan's  wild  note  by  the  Iceland  lakes, 
When  the  dark  fir-branch  into  verdure  breaks. 

From  the  streams   and   founts    I   have   loosed   the 

chain  ; 

They  are  sweeping  on  to  the  silvery  main, 
They  are  flashing  down  from  the  mountain  brows, 
They  are  flinging  spray  o'er  the  forest  boughs, 
They  are  bursting  fresh  from  their  sparry  caves, 
And  the  earth  resounds  with  the  joy  of  waves  ! 

Come  forth,  0  ye  children  of  gladness  !   come  ! 
Where  the  violets  lie  may  be  now  your  home. 


SPRING.  21 

Ye  of  the  rose-lip  and  dew-bright  eye, 
And  the  bounding  footstep,  to  meet  me  fly  ! 
With  the  lyre,  and  the  wreath,  and  the  joyous  lay, 
Come  forth  to  the  sunshine — I  may  not  stay. 

Away  from  the  dwellings  of  care-worn  men, 
The  waters  are  sparkling  in  grove  and  glen ! 
Away  from  the  chamber  and  sullen  hearth, 
The  young  leaves  are  dancing  in  breezy  mirth ! 
Their  light  stems  thrill  to  the  wild-wood  strains, 
And  youth  is  abroad  in  my  green  domains. 

But  ye  ! — ye  are  changed  since  ye  met  me  last ! 
There     is    something    bright    from    your    features 

passed ! 

There  is  that  come  over  your  brow  and  eye 
Which   speaks    of  a  world  where  the  flowers    must 

die! 

— Ye  smile  !  but  your  smile  hath  a  dimness  yet : 
Oh !  what  have  you  looked  on  since  last  we  met  ? 

Ye  are  changed,  ye  are  changed ! — and   I  see  not 

here 

• 

All  whom  I  saw  in  the  vanished  year ! 


22  S  P  K I N  G. 

There  were  graceful  heads,  with  their  ringlets  bright, 
Which  tossed  in  the  breeze  with  a  play  of  light ; 
There  were  eyes  in  whose  glistening  laughter  lay 
No  faint  remembrance  of  dull  decay  ! 

There  were  steps  that  flew  o'er  the  cowslip's  head, 

As  if  for  a  banquet  all  earth  was  spread ; 

There  were  voices  that  rang  through  the  sapphire 

sky, 

And  had  not  a  sound  of  mortality ! 

Are  they  gone?  is  their  mirth  from  the  mountains 

passed  ? 
— Ye  have  looked  on  Death  since  ye  met  me  last. 

I  know  whence  the  shadow  comes  o'er  you  now — 
Ye  have  strewn  the  dust  on  the  sunny  brow ! 
Ye  have  given  the  lovely  to  earth's  embrace — 
She  hath  taken  the  fairest  of  beauty's  race, 
With  their  laughing  eyes  and  their  festal  crown : 
They  are  gone  from  amongst  you  in  silence  down ! 

They  are  gone  from  amongst  you,  the  young  and 

fair, 
Ye  have  lost  the  gleam  of  their  shining  hair ! 


THE    MAY-BUSH.  23 

But  I  know  of  a  land  where  there  falls  no  blight — 
I  shall  find  them  there,  with  their  eyes  of  light ! 
Where  Dea.th  midst   the  blooms  of  the   morn   may 

dwell, 
I  tarry  no  longer — farewell,  farewell ! 

The  summer  is  coming,  on  soft  winds  borne — 
Ye  may  press  the  grape,  ye  may  bind  the  corn  ! 
For  me,  I  depart  to  a  brighter  shore — 
Ye  are  marked  by  care,  ye  are  mine  no  more : 
I  go  where  the  loved  who  have  left  you  dwell, 
And  the  flowers  are   not  Death's. — Fare  ye   well, 
farewell ! 

HEMANS. 


THE    MAY-BUSH. 

YOUNG  folk  now  flock  in  everywhere 
To  gather  May-bushes,  and  smelling  brere. 
And  home  they  hasten,  the  posts  to  dight, 
And  all  the  kirk  pillars,  ere  day-light, 
With  hawthorn-buds,  and  sweet  eglantine, 

And  garlands  of  roses. 

Even  this  morning — no  longer  ago, 
I  saw  a  shole  of  shepherds  outgo, 


24  SPRING. 

With  singing,  and  shouting,  and  jolly  cheer: 
Before  them  went  a  lusty  tabourer, 
That  unto  many  a  hornpipe  played, 
Whereto  they  danced,  each  one  with  his  maid. 
_To  see  these  folk  making  such  joyance 
Made  my  heart  after  the  pipe  to  dance. 
Then  to  the  greenwood  they  speed  them  all 
To  fetch  home  May,  with  their  musical : 
And  home  they  bring  him,  in  a  royal  throne, 
Crowned  as  king ;  and  his  queen — fair  one, 
Was  Lady  Flora,  on  whom  did  attend 
A  fair  flock  of  fairies,  and  a  fresh  bend 
Of  lovely  nymphs.     0  that  I  were  there, 
To  help  the  ladies  their  May-bush  to  bear ! 

SPENSER. 


SPRING. 

THE  sweet  season  that  bud  and  bloome  forth  brings, 
With  green  hath  clad  the  hill  and  eke  the  vale  ; 

The  nightingale  with  feathers  new  she  sings ; 
The  turtle  to  her  mate  hath  told  her  tale. 

Summer  is  come,  for  every  spray  now  springs, 
The  hart  hath  hung  his  old  head  on  the  pale, 


ONMAYMORNING.  25 

The  buck  in  brake  his  winter-coat  he  flings, 
The  fishes  fleet  with  new-repaired  scale : 

The  adder  all  her  slough  away  she  flings, 
The  swift  swallow, pursues  the  flic's  small, 

The  busy  bee  her  honey  now  she  mings. 
Winter  is  worn  that  was  the  flower's  bale, 

And  thus  I  see,  among  those  pleasant  things, 

Each  care  decays,  and  yet  my  sorrow  springs. 

EARL  OF  SCBRBT. 


ON    MAY    MORNING. 

Now  the  bright  morning-star,  day's  harbinger, 
Comes  dancing  from  the  East,  and  leads  with  her 
The  flowery  May,  who  from  her  green  lap  throws 
The  yellow  cowslip  and  the  pale  primrose. 
Hail,  bounteous  May !  that  dost  inspire 
Mirth,  and  youth,  and  warm  desire ; 
Woods  and  groves  are  of  thy  dressing, 
Hill  and  dale  doth  boast  thy  blessing. 
Thus  we  salute  thee  with  our  early  song, 

And  welcome  thee,  and  wish  thee  long. 

MILTON. 
4 


26  CHILDKEN    IN    SPRING. 


CHILDREN  IN   SPRING. 

THE  snoAv  has  left  the  cottage-top  ; 

The  thatch-moss  grows  in  brighter  green 
And  eaves  in  quick  succession  drop, 

Where  grinning  icicles  have  been, 
Pit-patting  with  a  pleasant  noise 

In  tubs  set  by  the  cottage-door  ; 
While  ducks  and  geese,  with  happy  joys, 

Plunge  in  the  yard-pond  brimming  o'er. 

The  sun  peeps  through  the  window-pane, 

Which  children  mark  with  laughing  eye, 
And  in  the  wet  streets  steal  again, 

To  tell  each  other  spring  is  nigh. 
Then  as  young  Hope  the  past  recalls, 

In  playing  groups  they  often  draw, 
To  build  beside  the  sunny  walls 

Their  spring-time  huts  of  sticks  or  straw. 

And  oft  in  pleasure's  dream  they  hie 
Round  homesteads  by  the  village  side, 

Scratching  the  hedge-row  mosses  by, 
Where  painted  pooty  shells  abide  ; 


DAY:   A  PASTORAL.  27 

Mistaking  oft  the  ivy  spray 

For  leaves  that  come  with  budding  spring, 
And  wondering,  in  their  search  for  play, 

Why  birds  delay,  to  build  and  sing. 

The  mavis  thrush,  with  wild  delight, 

Upon  the  orchard's  dripping  tree 
Mutters,  to  see  the  day  so  bright 

Fragments  of  young  Hope's  poesy  ; 
And  Dame  oft  stops  her  buzzing  wheel, 

To  hear  the  robin's  note  once  more, 
Who  tootles  while  he  pecks  his  meal 

From  sweet-brier  hips  beside  the  door. 

GLARE. 


DAY:    A   PASTORAL. 

i 
IN  the  barn  the  tenant  cock, 

Close  to  Partlet  perched  on  high, 
Briskly  crows  (the  shepherd's  clock) ! 
Jocund  that  the  morning's  nigh. 

Swiftly  from  the  mountain's  brow, 
Shadows,  nursed  by  night,  retire  : 


28  DAY:     A    PASTORAL. 

And  the  peeping  sunbeam,  now, 
Paints  with  gold  the  village  spire. 

Philomel  forsakes  the  thorn, 

Plaintive  where  she  prates  at  night ; 

And  the  lark,  to  meet  the  morn, 
Soars  beyond  the  shepherd's  sight. 

From  the  low-roofed  cottage  ridge. 

See  the  chatt'ring  swallow  spring ; 
Darting  through  the  one-arched  bridge, 

Quick  she  dips  her  dappled  wing. 

Now  the  pine-tree's  waving  top 
Gently  greets  the  morning  gale  ! 

Kidlings,  now,  begin  to  crop 
Daisies,  in  the  dewy  dale. 

A 

From  the  balmy  sweets,  uncloyed 
(Restless  till  her  task  be  done), 

Now  the  busy  bee's  employed 
Sipping  dew  before  the  sun. 

Trickling  through  the  creviced  rock, 
Where  the  limpid  stream  distils, 


COEINNA'S  GOING  A   MAYING.  29 

Sweet  refreshment  waits  the  flock 
When  'tis  sun-drove  from  the  hills. 

Colin,  for  the  promised  corn 

(Ere  the  harvest  hopes  are  ripe) 
Anxious,  hears  the  huntsman's  horn, 

Boldly  sounding,  drown  his  pipe. 

Sweet, — 0  sweet,  the  warbling  throng, 

On  the  white  emblossomed  spray  ! 
Nature's  universal  song 

Echoes  to  the  rising  day. 

JOHN  CUNNINGHAM. 


CORINNA'S  GOING  A  MAYING. 

GET  up,  get  up  for  shame  !  the  blooming  Morn 
Upon  her  wings  presents  the  God  unshorn ! 
See  how  Aurora  throws  her  fair 
Fresh-quilted  colors  through  the  air  !- 
Get  up,  sweet  slug-a-bed !  and  see 
The  dew  bespangling  herb  and  tree. 
Each  flower  has  wept  and  bowed  towards  the  east 
Above  an  hour  since,  yet  you  are  not  dressed ! — 


30  CORINNA'S  GOING  A  MAYING. 

Nay,  not  so  much  as  out  of  bed, 
When  all  the  birds  have  matins  said, 
And  sung  their  thankful  hymns :   'tis  sin — 
Nay,  profanation,  to  keep  in, 
Whereas  a  thousand  virgins  on  this  day 
Spring  sooner  than  the  lark,  to  fetch  in  May ! 

Rise !  and  put  on  your  foliage,  and  be  seen 

To  come  forth,  like  the  spring-time,  fresh  and  green, 

And  sweet  as  Flora.     Take  no  care 

For  jewels  for  your  gown  or  hair  ; 

Fear  not,  for  the  leaves  will  strew 

Gems  in  abundance  upon  you  ; — 
Besides,  the  childhood  of  the  day  has  kept, 
Against  you  come,  some  orient  pearls  unwept  ?• 

Come,  and  receive  them  while  the  light 

Hangs  on  the  dew-locks  of  the  night, 

And  Titan  on  the  eastern  hill 

Retires  himself,  or  else  stands  still 
Till   you   come   forth.      Wash,    dress,   be   brief    in 

praying : 
Few  beads  are  best  when  once  we  go  a  Maying. 

Come,  my  Corinna !  come,  and  coming,  mark 
How  each  field  turns  a  street — each  street  a  park, 


CORINNA    S    GOING    A    MAYING.  31 

Made  green,  and  trimmed  with  trees ! — see  how 
Devotion  gives  each  house  a  bough 
Or  branch ! — each  porch,  each  door,  ere  this 
An  ark,  a  tabernacle  is, 
Made  up  of  whitehorn  neatly  interwove, 
As  if  here  were  those  cooler  shades  of  love. 
Can  such  delights  be  in  the  street 
And  open  fields,  and  we  not  see  't  ? 
Come,  we'll  abroad,  and  let's  obey 
The  proclamation  made  for  May, 
And  sin  no  more,  as  we  have  done  by  staying, 
But,  my  Corinna !  come,  let's  go  a  Maying. 

There's  not  a  budding  boy  or  girl  this  day 

But  is  got  up  and  gone  to  bring  in  May. 
A  deal  of  youth  ere  this  has  come 
Back,  and  with  whitehorn  laden  home : 
Some  have  despatched  their  cakes  and  create 
Before  that  we  have  ceased  to  dream ; 

And  some  have  wept,  and  wooed,  and  plighted  troth. 

And  chose  their  priest,  ere  we  can  cast  off  sloth  ; 
Many  a  green  gown  has  been  given ; 
Many  a  kiss,  both  odd  and  even ; 


32  CORINNA'S  GOING  A  MAYING. 

Many  a  glance,  too,  has  been  sent 
From  out  the  eye,  love's  firmament ; 
Many  a  jest  told  of  the  key's  betraying 
This  night,  and    locks    picked ; — yet    we're    not 
Maying ! 

Come,  let  us  go,  while  we  are  in  our  prime, 
And  take  the  harmless  folly  of  the  time  ; 

We  shall  grow  old  apace  and  die 

Before  we  know  our  liberty. 

Our  life  is  short,  and  our  days  run 

As  fast  away  as  does  the  sun : 
And  as  a  vapor,  or  a  drop  of  rain, 
Once  lost,  can  ne'er  be  found  again, 

So  when  or  you  or  I  are  made 

A  fable,  song,  or  fleeting  shade, 

All  love,  all  liking,  all  delight, 

Lies  drowned  with  us  in  endless  night. 
Then  while  time  serves,  and  we  are  but  decaying, 
Come,  my  Corinna !  come,  let's  go  a  Maying. 

HEEKICK. 


THE    PRIMROSE.  33 


THE    PRIMROSE. 

WELCOME,  pale  primrose  !  starting  up  between 
Dead  matted  leaves  of  ash  and  oak,  that  strew 
The  every  lawn,  the  wood,  and  spinny  through, 

'Mid  creeping  moss  and  ivy's  darker  green  ; 
How  much  thy  presence  beautifies  the  ground, 

How  sweet  thy  modest,  unaffected  pride, 

Glows  on  the  sunny  bank,  and  wood's  warm  side. 
And  when  thy  fairy  flowers  in  groups  are  found, 

The  schoolboy  roams  enchantedly  along, 
Plucking  the  fairest  with  a  rude  delight ; 

While  the  meek  shepherd  stops  his  simple  song, 
To  gaze  a  moment  on  the  pleasing  sight ; 

O'erjoyed  to  see  the  flowers  that  truly  bring 

The  welcome  news^of  sweet  returning  Spring. 

CLARE. 


34  A    TRIBUTE    TO    MAY. 

A    TRIBUTE    TO    MAY. 

(FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  CONRAD  OF  KIRCHBERG.) 

MAY,  sweet  May,  again  is  come, — 

May  that  frees  the  land  from  gloom ; 

Children,  children  !  up  and  see 

All  her  stores  of  jollity. 

On  the  laughing  hedgerow's  side 

She  hath  spread  her  treasures  wide  ; 

She  is  in  the  greenwood  shade, 

Where  the  nightingale  hath  made 

Every  branch  and  every  tree 

Ring  with  her  sweet  melody : 

Hill  and  dale  are  May's  own  treasures, 

Youths,  rejoice  !     In  sportive  measures 

Sing  ye !  join  the  chorus  gay  ! 

Hail  this  merry,  merry  May  ! 
Up  !  then,  children  !  we  will  go, 
Where  the  blooming  roses  grow ; 
In  a  joyful  company, 
We  the  bursting  flowers  will  see  ; 
Up,  your  festal  dress  prepare  ! 
Where  gay  hearts  are  meeting,  there 


THE    WOODLAND    IN    SPRING.  35 

May  hath  pleasures  most  inviting, 
Heart,  and  sight,  and  ear,  delighting. 
Listen  to  the  bird's  sweet  song, 
Hark  !  how  soft, it  Jfloats  along. 
Courtly  dames  !  our  pleasure  share  ; 
Never  saw  I  May  so  fair : 
Therefore,  dancing  will  we  go, 
Youths,  rejoice  !  the  flow'rets  blow  ! 
Sing  ye  !  join  the  chorus  gay  ! 

Hail  this  merry,  merry  May ! 

ROSCOK. 


THE  WOODLAND  IN   SPRING. 

E'EN  in  the  spring  and  play-time  of  the  year, 
That  calls  th'  unwonted  villager  abroad 
With  all  her  little  ones,  a  sportive  train, 
To  gather  kingcups  in  the  yellow  mead, 
And  prink  their  hair  with  daisies,  or  to  pick 
A  cheap  but  wholesome  salad  from  the  brook  : 
These  shades  are  all  my  own.     The  timorous  hare, 
Grown  so  familiar  with  her  frequent  guest, 
Scarce  shuns  me  ;  and  the  stock-dove,  unalarmed, 
Sits  cooing  in  the  pine-tree,  nor  suspends 


36  BREATHINGS    OF    SPRING. 

His  long  love-ditty  for  my  near  approach. 

Drawn  from  his  refuge  in  some  lonely  elm, 

That  age  or  injury  has  hollowed  deep, 

Where,  on  his  bed  of  wool  and  matted  leaves, 

He  has  outslept  the  winter,  ventures  forth 

To  frisk  awhile,  and  bask  in  the  warm  sun, 

The  squirrel,  flippant,  pert,  and  full  of  play ; 

He  sees  me,  and  at  once,  swift  as  a  bird, 

Ascends  the   neighboring  beech ;    there  whisks  his 

brush, 

And  perks  his  ears,  and  stamps  and  cries  aloud, 
With  all  the  prettiness  of  feigned  alarm, 

And  anger  insignificantly  fierce. 

COWPEH. 


BREATHINGS    OF    SPRING. 

WHAT  wakest  thou,  Spring?     Sweet  voices  in  the 

woods, 

And  reed-like  echoes,  that  have  long  been  mute ; 
Thou  bringest  back,  to  fill  the  solitudes, 
The  lark's  clear  pipe,  the  cuckoo's  viewless  flute, 
Whose  tone  seems  breathing  mournfulness  or  glee, 

E'en  as  oui  hearts  may  be. 


BREATHINGS    OF    SPRING.  37 

And   the   leaves   greet  thee,    Spring! — the    joyous 

leaves, 

Whose  tremblings  gladden  many  a  copse  and  glade, 
Where  each  young  spray  a  rosy  flush  receives, 
When  thy  south   wind   hath  pierced   the  whispery 

shade, 

And  happy  murmurs,  running  through  the  grass, 
Tell  that  thy  footsteps  pass. 

And  the  bright  waters — they  too  hear  thy  call, 
Spring,  the  awakener  !  thou  hast  burst  their  sleep  ! 
Amidst  the  hollows  of  the  rocks  their  fall 
Makes  melody,  and  in  the  forests  deep, 
Where  sudden  sparkles  and  blue  gleams  betray 
Their  windings  to  the  day. 

And  flowers — the  fairy-peopled  world  of  flowers ! 
Thou  from  the  dust  hast  set  that  glory  free, 
Coloring  the  cowslip  with  the  sunny  hours, 
And  pencilling  the  wood  anemone : 
Silent  they  seem — yet  each  to  thoughtful  eye 
Glows  with  mute  poesy. 

But  what  awakest  thou  in  the  heart,  0  Spring ! 
The  human  heart,  with  all  its  dreams  and  sighs  ? 


38  BREATHINGS    OF    SPRING. 

Thou  that  givest  back  so  many  a  buried  thing, 

Restorer  of  forgotten  harmonies  ! 

Fresh  songs  and  scents  break  forth,  where'er  thou 

art — 
What  wakest  thou  in  the  heart  ? 

Too  much,  oh  !  there  too  much  !     We  know  not  well 
Wherefore  it  should  be  thus,  yet  roused  by  thee, 
What  fond,  strange  yearnings,  from  the  soul's  deep 

cell, 

Gush  for  the  faces  we  no  more  may  see ! 
How  are  we  haunted,  in  the  wind's  low  tone, 
By  voices  that  are  gone ! 

Looks  of  familiar  love,  that  never  more, 
Never  on  earth,  our  aching  eyes  shall  meet, 
Past  words  of  welcome  to  our  household  door, 
And  vanished  smiles,  and  sounds  of  parted  feet, — 
Spring  !  'midst  the  murmurs  of  thy  flowering  trees, 
Why,  why  revivest  thou  these  ? 

Vain  longings  for  the  dead  ! — why  come  they  back 
With  thy  young  birds,  and  leaves,  and  living  blooms  ? 
Oh !  is  it  not,  that  from  thine  earthly  track 


EARLY   SPRING.  39 


Hope  to  thy  world  may  look  beyond  the  tombs  ? 
Yes,  gentle  Spring !  no  sorrow  dims  thine  air, 
Breathed  by  our  loved  ones  there  I 


REMANS. 


EARLY   SPRING. 

THE  hawthorn  whitens,  and  the  juicy  groves 

Put  forth  their  buds  unfolding  by  degrees, 

Till  the  whole  leafy  forest  stands  displayed, 

In  full  luxuriance,  to  the  sighing  gales ; 

Where  the  deer  rustle  through  the  twining  brake, 

And  the  birds  sing  concealed.     At  once,  arrayed 

In  all  the  colors  of  the  flushing  year, 

By  Nature's  swift  and  secret-working  hand, 

The  garden  glows,  and  fills  the  liberal  air 

With  lavish  fragrance  :  while  the  -promised  fruit 

Lies  yet  a  little  embryo,  unperceived, 

Within  its  crimson  folds.     Now  from  the  town, 

Buried  in  smoke,  and  sleep,  and  noisome  damps, 

Oft  let  me  wander  o'er  the  dewy  fields, 

Where  freshness  breathes,  and  dash  the  trembling 

drops 
From  the  bent  bush  as  though  the  verdant  maze, 


40  A    WALK    BY    THE    WATER. 

Of  sweet-brier  hedges  I  pursue  my  walk  ; 

Or  taste  the  smell  of  dairy  :  or  ascend 

Some  eminence,  Augusta,  in  thy  plains, 

And  see  the  country  far  diffused  around, 

One  boundless  blush,  one  white-empurpled  shower 

Of  mingled  blossoms,  where  the  raptured  eye 

Hurries  from  joy  to  joy. 

THOMSON. 


A  WALK   BY   THE   WATER. 

LET  us  walk  where  reeds  are  growing, 

By  the  alders  in  the  mead ; 
Where  the  crystal  streams  are  flowing. 

In  whose  waves  the  fishes  feed. 

There  the  golden  carp  is  laving, 

With  the  trout,  the  perch,  and  bream , 

Mark  !  their  flexile  fins  are  waving, 
As  they  glance  along  the  stream. 

Now  they  sink  in  deeper  billows, 

Now  upon  the  surface  rise  ; 
Or  from  under  roots  of  willows, 

Dart'  to  catch  the  water  flies. 


JOY    OF    SPUING.  4t 

Midst  the  reeds  and  pebbles  hiding, 

See  the  minnow  and  the  roach  ; 
Or  by  water-lilies  gliding, 

Shun  with  fear  our  near  approach. 

Do  not  dread  us,  timid  fishes, 

We  have  neither  net  nor  hook  ; 
Wanderers  we,  whose  only  wishes 

Are  to  read  in  Nature's  book. 

CHARLOTTE  SMITH. 


JOY    OF    SPRING. 

FOR  lo !  no  sooner  has  the  cold  withdrawn, 
Than  the  bright  elm  is  tufted  on  the  lawn ; 
The  merry  sap  has  run^ip  in  the  bowers, 
And  burst  the  windows  of  the  buds  in  flowers ; 
With  song  the  bosoms  of  the  birds  run  o'er, 
The  cuckoo  calls,  the  swallow's  at  the  door, 
And  apple-trees  at  noon,  with  bees  alive, 
Burn  with  the  golden  chorus  of  the  hive. 
Now  all  these  sweets,  these  sounds,  this  vernal  blaze 
Is  but  one  joy,  expressed  a  thousand  ways : 

6 


42  THE    NIGHTINGALE    AT     EVE. 

And  honey  from  the  flowers,  and  song  from  birds, 
Are  from  the  poet's  pen  his  overflowing  words. 

LEIGH  HUNT. 


THE   NIGHTINGALE   AT   EVE. 

ALL  is  still, 

A  balmy  night !  and  though  the  stars  be  dinL 
Yet  let  us  think  upon  the  vernal  showers 
That  gladden  the  green  earth,  and  we  shall  find 
A  pleasure  in  the  dimness  of  the  stars. 
And  hark  !  the  Nightingale  begins  its  song, 
"Most  musical,  most  melancholy"  bird  ! 
A  melancholy  bird  !     Oh  !  idle  thought ! 

In  Nature  there  is  nothing  melancholy. 
******  * 

'Tis  the  merry  Nightingale 
That  crowds,  and  hurries,  and  precipitates 
With  fast  thick  warble  his  delicious  notes, 
As  he  were  fearful  that  an  April  night 
Would  be  too  short  for  him  to  utter  forth 
His  love-chant,  and  disburden  his  full  soul 
Of  all  its  music  ! 


THE    NIGHTINGALE    AT    EVE.  43 

I  know  a  grove 

Of  large  extent,  hard  by  a  castle  huge, 
"Which  the  great  lord  inhabits  not :  and  so 

* 

This  grove  is  wild  with  tangling  underwood, 

And  the  trim  walks  are  broken  up,  and  grass, 

Thin  grass  and  king-cups  grow  within  the  paths ; 

But  never  elsewhere  in  one  place  I  knew 

So  many  nightingales ;  and  far  and  near, 

In  wood  and  thicket  over  the  wide  grove, 

They  answer  and  provoke  each  other's  songs — 

With  skirmish  and  capricious  passagings, 

And  murmurs  musical  and  swift  jug  jug, 

And  one  low  piping  sound  more  sweet  than  all — 

Stirring  the  air  with  such  a  harmony, 

That,  should  you  close  your  eyes,  you  might  almost 

Forget  it  was  not  day !     On  moonlit  bushes 

Whose  dewy  leaflets  are  but  half  disclosed, 

You  may,  perchance,  behold  them  on  the  twigs, 

Their  bright,  bright  eyes,  their  eyes  both  bright  and 

full, 

Glistening,  while  many  a  glowworm  in  the  shade 
Lights  up  her  love-torch. 


44  BEES    AND    BUTTERFLIES. 

And  oft  a  moment's  space, 
What  time  the  moon  was  lost  behind  a  cloud, 
Hath  heard  a  pause  of  silence  ;  till  the  moon 
Emerging,  hath  awakened  earth  and  sky 
With  one  sensation,  and  these  wakeful  birds 
Have  all  burst  forth  in  choral  minstrelsy, 
As  if  some  sudden  gale  had  swept  at  once 
A  hundred  airy  harps  !     And  I  have  watched 
Many  a  nightingale  perched  giddily 
On  blossomy  twig  still  swinging  from  the  breeze, 
And  to  that  motion  tune  his  wanton  song, 
Like  tipsy  Joy  that  reels  with  tossing  head. 

COLERIDGE. 


BEES   AND  BUTTERFLIES. 

THE  insect-world,  now  sunbeams  higher  climb, 
Oft  dream  of  Spring,  and  wake  before  their  time. 
Bees  stroke  their  .little  legs  across  their  wings, 
And  venture  short  flights  where  the  snowdrop  brings 
Its  silver  bell,  and  winter  aconite 
Its  buttercup-like  flowers  that  shut  at  night, 
With  green  leaf  furling  round  its  cup  of  gold, 
Like  tender  maiden  muffled  from  the  cold ; 


THE   ANGLER'S  WISH.  45 

They  sip,  and  find  their  honey-dreams  are  vain, 
Then  feebly  hasten  to  their  hives  again. 
The  butterflies  by  eager  hopes  undone, 
Glad  as  a  child  come  out  to  greet  the  sun : 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  a  sudden  shower 
Are  lost — nor  see  to-morrow's  April  flower. 

CLARE 


THE  ANGLER'S   WISH. 

I  IN  the  flow'ry  meads  would  be : 

The  crystal  streams  should  solace  me ; 

To  whose  harmonious  bubbling  noise 

I  with  my  angle  would  rejoice, 

Sit  here,  and  see  the  turtle-dove 
Court  his  chaste  mate  to  acts  of  love . 

Or  on  that  bank  feel  the  west  wind 
Breathe  health  and  plenty,  please  my  mind 
To  see  sweet  dew-drops  kiss  these  flowers, 
And  then  washed  off  by  April  showers  : 
Here  hear  my  Kenna  sing  a  song, 
There  see  a  blackbird  feed  her  young, 


46  APRIL. 

Or  a  leverock  build  her  nest : 

Here  give  my  weary  spirits  rest, 

And  raise  my  low-pitched  thoughts  above 

Earth,  or  what  poor  mortals  love  : 

Thus  free  from  lawsuits,  and  the  noise 

* 

Of  princes'  courts,  I  would  rejoice  : 

Or  with  my  Bryan  and  a  book, 
Loiter  long  days  near  Shawford  Brook  ; 
There  sit  by  him,  and  eat  my  meat ; 
There  see  the  sun  both  rise  and  set : 
There  bid  good  morning  to  next  day ; 
There  meditate  my  time  away ; 

And  angle  on,  and  beg  to  have 

A  quiet  passage  to  a  welcome  grave. 

IZAAK  WALTON. 


APRIL. 

Now  daisies  pied,  and  violets  blue, 

And  lady-smocks  all  silver  white, 
And  cuckoo-buds  of  yellow  hue, 
Do  paint  the  meadows  with  delight ; 
The  cuckoo  now  on  every  tree, 

Sings  cuckoo  !  cuckoo  ! 

SHAKSPEAEB 


MAY.  47 


MAY. 

WHEN  apple-trees  in  blossom  are, 
And  cherries  of  a  silken  white ; 
And  king-cups  deck  the  meadows  fair; 

And  daffodils  in  brooks  delight ; 
When  golden  wall-flowers  bloom  around, 
And  purple  violets  scent  the  ground, 
And  lilac  'gins  to  show  her  bloom, — 
We  then  may  say  the  May  is  come. 

When  happy  shepherds  tell  their  tale 

Under  the  tender  leafy  tree  ; 
And  all  adown  the  grassy  vale 

The  mocking  cuckoo  chanteth  free ; 
And  Philomel,  with  liquid  throat, 
Doth  pour  the  welcome,  warbling  note, 
That  had  been  all  the  Winter  dumb, — 
We  then  may  say  the  May  is  come. 

When  fishes  leap  in  silver  stream, 
And  tender  corn  is  springing  high, 

And  banks  are  warm  with  sunny  beam, 
And  twittering  swallows  cleave  the  sky, 


48  SPRIN'G    MORNING. 

And  forest  bees  are  humming  near, 
And  cowslips  in  boys'  hats  appear, 
And  maids  do  wear  the  meadow's  bloom, — 
We  then  may  say  the  May  is  come. 

CLARE. 


SPRING   MORNING. 

COME  hither,  come  hither,  and  view  the  face 

Of  Nature,  enrobed  in  her  vernal  grace. 

By  the  hedgerow  wayside  flowers  are  springing ; 

On  the  budding  elms  the  birds  are  singing ; 

And  up — up — up  to  the  gates  of  heaven 

Mounts  the  lark,  on  the  wings  of  her  rapture  driven ; 

The  voice  of  the  streamlet  is  fresh  and  loud ; 

On  the  sky  there  is  not  a  speck  of  cloud : 

Come  hither,  come  hither,  and  join  with  me, 

In  the  season's  delightful  jubilee  ! 

Come  hither,  come  hither,  and  guess  with  me, 
How  fair  and  how  fruitful  the  year  will  be  ! 
Look  into  the  pasture-grounds  o'er  the  pale, 
And  behold  the  foal  with  its  switching  tail, 
About  and  abroad,  in  its  mirth  it  flies, 
With  its  long  black  forelocks  about  its  eyes ; 


SABBATH     MORNING.  - 

Or  bends  its  neck  down  with  a  stretch, 

The  daisy's  earliest  flowers  to  reach. 

See !  as  on  by  the  hawthorn  fence  we  pass, 

How  the  sheep  are  nibbling  the  tender  grass, 

Or  holding  their  heads  to  the  sunny  ray, 

As  if  their  hearts,  like  its  smile,  were  gay ; 

While  the  chattering  sparrows,  in  and  out, 

Fly  the  shrubs,  and  the  trees,  and  roofs  about, 

And  sooty  rooks,  loudly  cawing,  roam, 

With  sticks  and  straws,  to  their  woodland  home. 

MOIK. 


SABBATH   MORNING. 

How  still  the  morning  of  the  hallowed  day  ! 
Mute  is  the  voice  of  rural  labor,  hushed 
The  plough-boy's  whistle,  and  the  milk-maid's  song. 
The  scythe  lies  glittering  in  the  dewy  wreath 
Of  tedded  grass,  mingled  with  fading  flowers, 
That  yesterrnorn  bloomed  waving  in  the  breeze. 
The  faintest  sounds  attract  the  ear — the  hum 
Of  early  bee,  the  trickling  of  the  dew, 
The  distant  bleating  midway  up  the  hill. 
Calmness  seems  throned  on  yon  unmoving  cloud. 

7 


50       THE  WONDERS  OF  THE  LANE. 

To  him  who  wanders  o'er  the  upland  leas, 
The  blackbird's  note  comes  mellower  from  the  dale ; 
And  sweeter  from  the  sky  the  gladsome  lark 
Warbles  his  heaven-tuned  song ;  the  lulling  brook 
Murmurs  more  gently  down  the  deep  sunk  glen; 
While  from  yon  lowly  roof,  whose  curling  smoke 
O'ermounts  the  mist,  is  heard  at  intervals 
The  voice  of  psalms,  the  simple  song  of  praise. 

GRAHAME 


THE  WONDERS  OF  THE  LANE. 

STRONG  climber  of  the  mountain's  side, 

Though  thou  the  vale  disdain, 
Yet  walk  with  me  where  hawthorns  hide 

The  wonders  of  the  lane. 
High  o'er  the  rushy  springs  of  Don 

The  stormy  gloom  is  rolled ; 
The  moorland  hath  not  yet  put  on 

His  purple,  green,  and  gold. 
But  here  the  titling  spreads  his  wing, 

Where  dewy  daisies  gleam  ; 
And  here  the  sunflower  of  the  Spring 

Burns  bright  in  morning's  beam. 


THE  WONDERS  OF  THE  LANE.       51 

To  mountain-winds  the  famished  fox 

Complains  that  Sol  is  slow, 
O'er  headlong  steeps  and  gushing  rocks 

His  royal  robe  to  throw. 
But  here  the  lizard  seeks  the  sun, 

Here  coils,  in  light,  the  snake : 
And  here  the  fire-tuft  hath  begun 

Its  beauteous  nest  to  make. 
Oh  !  then,  while  hums  the  earliest  bee 

Where  verdure  fires  the  plain, 
Walk  thou  with  me,  and  stoop  to  see 

The  glories  of  the  lane! 
For  oh  !  I  love  these  banks  of  rock, 

This  roof  of  sky  and  tree, 
These  tufts,  where  sleeps  the  gloaming  clock, 

And  wakes  the  earliest  bee ! 
As  spirits  from  eternal  day 

Look  down  on  earth,  secure, 
Look  here,  and  wonder,  and  survey 

A  world  in  miniature. 
A  world  not  scorned  by  Him  who  made 

E'en  weakness  by  His  might ; 
But  solemn  in  His  depth  of  shade 

And  splendid  in  His  sight. 

ELLIOTT. 


52  SPRING    POINTING    TO    GOD. 

SPRING   POINTING  TO   GOD. 

LOOSED  from  the  bands  .of  frost,  the  verdant  ground 
Again  puts  on  her  robe  of  cheerful  green, 

Again  puts  forth  her  flowers ;  and  all  around, 
Smiling,  the  cheerful  face  of  spring  is  seen. 

Behold  the  trees  new-deck  their  withered  boughs  ; 

Their  ample  leaves  the  hospitable  plane, 
The  taper  elm,  and  lofty  ash  disclose  ; 

The  blooming  hawthorn  variegates  the  scene. 

The  lily  of  the  vale,  of  flowers  the  queen, 

Puts  on  the  robe  she  neither  sewed  nor  spun  : 

The  birds  on  ground,  or  on  the  branches  green, 
Hop  to  and  fro,  and  glitter  in  the  sun. 

Soon  as  o'er  eastern  hills  the  morning  peers, 
From  her  low  nest  the  tufted  lark  upsprings ; 

And  cheerful  singing,  up  the  air  she  steers ; 

Still  high  she  mounts,  still  loud  and  sweet  she 
sings. 

On  the  green  furze,  clothed  o'er  with  golden  blooms, 
That  fill  the  air  with  fragrance  all  around, 


EFFECTS    OE    SPRING.  53 

The  linnet  sits,  and  tricks  his  glossy  plumes, 
While  o'er  the  wild  his  broken-  notes  resound. 

While  the  sun  journey's  down  the  western  sky, 

Along    the     greensward,    marked    with     Roman 
mound, 

Beneath  the  blithesome  shepherd's  watchful  eye, 
The  cheerful  lambkins  dance  and  frisk  around. 

Now  is  the  time  for  those  who  wisdom  love, 

Who  love  to  walk  in  virtue's  flowery  road, 
Along  the  lovely  paths  of  spring  to  rove, 

And  follow  Nature  up  to  Nature's  God. 

BRUOB. 


EFFECTS  OF  SPRING. 

THE  great  Sun, 

Scattering  the  clouds  with  a  resistless  smile, 
Came  forth  to  do  thee  homage ;  a  sweet  hymn 
Was  by  the  low  winds  chanted  in  the  sky ; 
And  when  thy  feet  descended  on  the  earth, 
Scarce  could  they  move  amid  the  clustering  flowers 


54  EFFECTS    OF    SPRING. 

By  Nature  strewn  o'er  valley,  hill,  and  field, 
To  hail  her  blessed  deliverer ! — Ye  fair  trees, 
How  are  ye  changed,  and  changing  while  I  gaze  ! 
It  seems  as  if  some  gleam  of  verdant  light 
Fell  on  you  from  a  rainbow ;  but  it  lives 
Amid  your  tendrils,,  brightening  every  hour 
Into  a  deeper  radiance.     Ye  sweet  birds, 
Were  you  asleep  through  all  the  wintry  hours, 
Beneath  the  waters,  or  in  mossy  caves  ? — 
Yet  are  ye  not, 

Sporting  in  tree  and  air,  more  beautiful 
Than  the  young  lambs,  that,  from  the  valley-side, 
Send  a  soft  bleating  like  an  infant's  voice, 
Half  happy,  half  afraid  !     0  blessed  things  ! 
At  sight  of  this  your  perfect  innocence, 
The  sterner  thoughts  of  manhood  melt  away 

Into  a  mood  as  mild  as  woman's  dreams. 

WILSON. 


THE    MEADOW.  55 


THE    MEADOW. 

How  gay  this  meadow  I—like  a  gamesome  boy- 
New  clothed,  his  locks  fresh  combed  and  powdered, 

he 

All  healths  and  spirits.     Scarce  so  many  stars 
Shine  in  the  azure  canopy  of  heaven, 
As  king-cups  here  are  scattered,  interspersed 
With  silver  daisies. 

See,  the  toiling  hind 

With  many  a  sturdy  stroke  cuts  up  at  last 
The  tough  and  sinewy  furze.     How  hard  he  fought 
To  fell  the  glory  of  the  barren  waste  !  | 

For  what  more  noble  than  the  vernal  furze 
With  golden  baskets  hung  ?     Approach  it  not, 
For  every  blossom  has  a  troop  of  swords 
Drawn  to  defend  it.     'Tis  the  treasury 
Of  Fays  and  Fairies.     Here  they  nightly  meet, 
Each  with  a  burnished  king-cup  in  his  hand, 
And  quaff  the  subtile  ether.     Here  they  dance 
Or  to  the  village  chimes,  or  moody  song 
Of  midnight  Philomel.     The  ringlet  see 
Fantastically  trod.     There  Oberon 


56  THE    MEADOW. 

His  gallant  train  leads  out,  the  while  his  torch 
The  glow-worm  lights,  and  dusky  night  illumes : 
And  there  they  foot  it  featly  round  and  laugh. 
The  sacred  spot  the  superstitious  ewe 
Regards,  and  bites  it  not  in  reverence. 
Anon  the  drowsy  clock  tolls  one — the  cock 
His  clarion  sounds,  the  dance  breaks  off,  the  lights 
Are  quenched,  the  music  hushed,  they  speed  away 
Swifter  than  thought,  and  still  the  break  of  morn 
Outrun,*  and,  chasing  midnight  as  she  flies, 

Pursue  her  round  the  globe. 

HCRDIS. 


THE 


POETEY  DF   SUMMER. 


THE  POETRY  OF  SUMMER 


KEPOSE  IN  SUMMER 

(FROM  "  THE  TALKING  OAK.") 

HER  eyelids  dropped  their  silken  eaves, 

I  breathed  upon  her  eyes, 
Through  all  the  summer  of  my  leaves, 

A  welcome  mixed  with  sighs. 

Sometimes  I  let  a  sunbeam  slip 

To  light  her  shaded  eye  ; 
A  second  fluttered  round  her  lip, 

Like  a  golden  butterfly. 


TENNYSON. 
(59) 


60  SUMMER    REVERIE. 


SUMMER  REVERIE. 

I  STOOD  tiptoe  upon  a  little  hill, 

The  air  was  cooling,  and  so  very  still, 

That  the  sweet  buds  which  with  a  modest  pride 

Pull  droopingly,  in  slanting  curve  aside, 

Their  scanty-leaved,  and  finely-tapering  stems, 

Had  not  yet  lost  their  starry  diadems 

Caught  from  the  early  sobbing  of  the  morn. 

The  clouds  were  pure  and  white  as  flocks  new  shorn, 

And  fresh  from  the  clear  brook  ;  sweetly  they  slept 

On  the  blue  fields  of  heaven,  and  then  there  crept 

A  little  noiseless  noise  among  the  leaves, 

Born  of  the  very  sigh  that  silence  heaves ; 

For  not  the  faintest  motion  could  be  seen 

Of  all  the  shades  that  slanted  o'er  the  green. 

There  was  wide  wandering  for  the  greediest  eye, 
To  peer  about  upon  variety ; 
Far  round  the  horizon's  crystal  air  to  skim, 
And  trace  the  dwindled  edgings  of  its  brim ; 
To  picture  out  the  quaint  and  curious  bending 
Of  a  fresh  woodland  alley  never-ending  : 
Or  by  the  bowery  clefts,  and  leafy  shelves, 
Guess  where  the  jaunty  streams  refresh  themselves, 


SUMMER    REVERIE.  Cl 

I  gazed  awhile,  and  felt  as  light  and  free 

As  though  the  fanning  wings  of  Mercury 

Had  played  upon  my  heels  :  I  was  light-hearted, 

And  many  pleasures  to  my  vision  started ; 

So  I  straightway  began  to  pluck  a  posy 

Of  luxuries  bright,  milky,  soft,  and  rosy. 

A  bush  of  May-flowers  with  the  bees  about  them ; 

Ah,  sure  no  tasteful  nook  could  be  without  them ! 

And  let  a  lush  laburnum  oversweep  them, 

And  let  long  grass  grow  round  the  roots  to  keep  them 

Moist,  cool,  and  green ;  and  shade  the  violets, 

That  they  may  bind  the  moss  in  leafy  nets. 

A  filbert-hedge  with  wild-brier  overtwined, 
And  clumps  of  woodbine  taking  the  soft  wind 
Upon  their  summer  thrones ;  there  too  should  be 
The  frequent-chequer  of  a  youngling  tree, 
That  with  a  score  of  light  green  brethren  shoots 
From  the  quaint  mossiness  of  aged  roots  : 
Round  which  is  heard  a  spring-head  of  clear  waters, 
Babbling  so  wildly  of  its  lovely  daughters, 
The  spreading  blue-bells  :  it  may  haply  mourn 
That  such  fair  clusters  should  be  rudely  torn 
From  their  fresh  beds,  and  scattered  thoughtlessly 
By  infant  hands,  left  on  the  path  to  die. 


62  SUMMER     REVERIE. 

Open  afresh  your  round  of  starry  folds, 
Ye  ardent  marigolds  ! 

Dry  up  the  moisture  from  your  golden  lids, 
For  great  Apollo  bids 

That  in  these  days  your  praises  should  be  sung 
On  many  harps,  which  he  has  lately  strung  ; 
And  when  again  your  dewiness  he  kisses, 
Tell  him,  I  have  you  in  my  world  of  blisses : 
So  haply  when  I  rove  in  some  far  vale, 
His  mighty  voice  may  come  upon  the  gale. 

Here  are  sweet  peas,  on  tiptoe  for  a  flight  : 
With  wings  of  gentle  flush  o'er  delicate  white, 
And  taper  fingers  catching  at  all  things, 
To  bind  them  all  about  with  tiny  rings. 
Linger  awhile  upon  some  bending  planks 
That  lean  against  a  streamlet's  rushy  banks, 
And  watch  intently  Nature's  gentle  doings  : 
They  will  be  found  softer  than  ringdoves'  cooings. 
How  silent  comes  the  water  round  that  bend  ! 
Not  the  minutest  whisper  does  it  send 
To  the  o'erhanging  sallows :  blades  of  grass 
Slowly  across  the  chequered  shadows  pass. 
Why,  you  might  read  two  sonnets,  ere  they  reach 
To  where  the  hurrying  freshnesses  aye  preach 


SUMMER    REVERIE.  63 

A  natural  sermon  o'er  their  pebbly  beds ; 

< 
Where  swarms  of  minnows  show  their  little  heads, 

Staying  their  wavy  bodies  'gainst  the  streams, 

To  taste  the  luxury  of  sunny  beams 

Tempered  with  coolness.     How  they  ever  wrestle 

With  their  own  sweet  delight,  and  ever  nestle 

Their  silver  bellies  on  the  pebbly  sand ! 

If  you  but  scantily  hold  out  the  hand, 

That  very  instant  not  one  will  remain  ; 

But  turn  your  eye,  and  they  are  there  again. 

The  ripples  seem  right  glad  to  reach  those  cresses, 

And  cool  themselves  among  the  emerald  tresses ; 

The  while  they  cool  themselves,  they  freshness  give, 

And  moisture,  that  the  bowery  green  may  live ; 

So  keeping  up  an  interchange  of  favors, 

Like  good  men  in  the  truth  of  their  behaviors. 

Sometimes  goldfinches  one  by  one  will  drop 

From  low-hung  branches  :  little  space  they  stop  ; 

But  sip,  and  twitter,  and  their  feathers  sleek ; 

Then  off  at  once,  as  in  a  wanton  freak  : 

Or  perhaps,  to  show  their  black  and  golden  wings, 

Pausing  upon  their  yellow  flutterings. 

Were  I  in  such  a  place,  I  sure  should  pray 

That  nought  less  sweet  might  call  my  thoughts  away, 


64  SUMMER    REVERIE. 

Than  the  soft  rustle  of  a  maiden's  gown 

Fanning  away  the  dandelion's  down; 

Than  the  light  music  of  her  nimble  toes 

Patting  against  the  sorrel  as  she  goes. 

How  she  would  start,  and  blush,  thus  to  be  caught 

Playing  in  all  her  innocence  of  thought ; 

0  let  me  lead  her  gently  o'er  the  brook, 

Watch  her  half-smiling  lips  and  downward  look ; 

0  let  me  for  one  moment  touch  her  wrist; 

Let  me  one  moment  to  her  breathing  list ; 

And  as  she  leaves  me,  may  she  often  turn 

Her  fair  eyes  looking  through  her  locks  auburn. 

What  next  ?  a  tuft  of  evening  primroses, 

O'er  which  the  mind  may  hover  till  it  dozes ; 

O'er  which  it  well  might  take  a  pleasant  sleep, 

But  that  'tis  ever  startled  by  the  leap 

Of  buds  into  ripe  flowers  ;  or  by  the  flitting 

Of  divers  moths,  that  aye  their  rest  are  quitting ; 

Or  by  the  moon  lifting  her  silver  rim 

Above  a  cloud,  and  with  a  gradual  swim 

Coming  into  the  blue  with  all  her  light. 

0  Maker  of  sweet  poets !  dear  delight 

Of  this  fair  world  and  all  its  gentle  livers ; 

Spangler  of  clouds,  halo  of  crystal  rivers, 


SUMMER    REVERIE.  65 

Mingler  with  leaves,  and  dew  and  tumbling  streams, 

Closer  of  lovely  eyes  to  lovely  dreams, 

Lover  of  loneliness,  and  wandering, 

Of  upcast  eye,  and  tender  pondering  ! 

Thee  must  I  praise  above  all  other  glories 

That  smile  us  on  to  tell,  delightful  stories. 

For  what  has  made  the  sage  or  poet  write 

But  the  fair  Paradise  of  Nature's  light? 

In  the  calm  grandeur  of  a  sober  line, 

We  see  the  waving  of  the  mountain  pine  ; 

And  when  a  tale  is  beautifully  staid, 

We  feel  the  safety  of  a  hawthorn  glade  : 

When  it  is  moving  on  luxurious  wings, 

The  soul  is  lost  in  pleasant  smotherings  : 

Fair  dewy  roses  brush  against  our  faces, 

And  flowering  laurels  spring  from  diamond  vases ; 

O'erhead  we  see  the  jasmine  and  sweet-brier 

And  bloomy  grapes  laughing  from  green  attire ; 

While  at  our  feet,  the  voice  of  crystal  bubbles 

Charms  us  at  once  away  from  all  our  troubles : 

So  that  we  feel  uplifted  from  the  world, 

Walking  upon  the  white  clouds  wreathed  and  curled. 

KEATS. 
9 


66  THE     BROOK    IN    SUMMER. 


THE  BROOK  TN  SUMMER. 

HERE  happy  would  they  stray  in  summer  hours, 

To  spy  the  birds  in  their  green  leafy  bowers, 

And  learn  their  various  voiced ;  to  delight 

In  the  gay  tints,  and  ever-bickering  flight 

Of  dragon-flies  upon  the  river's  brim  ; 

Or  swift  king-fisher  in  his  gaudy  trim 

Come  skimming  past,  with  a  shrill,  sudden  cry ; 

Or  on  the  river's  sunny  marge  to  lie, 

And  count  the  insects  that  meandering  trace, 

In  some  smooth  nook,  their  circuits  on  its  face. 

Now  gravely  ponder  on  the  frothy  cells 

Of  insects,  hung  on  flowery  pinnacles ; 

Now,  wading  the  deep  grass,  exulting  trace 

The  corn-crake's  curious  voice  from  place  to  place ; 

Now  here — now  there — now  distant — now  at  hand — 

Now  hushed,  just  where   in  wondering  mirth   they 

stand. 
To  lie  abroad  on  Nature's  lonely  breast, 

Amidst  the  music  of  a  summer's  sky, 
Where  tall,  dark  pines  the  northern  bank  invest 

Of  a  still  lake ;  and  see  the  long  pikes  lie 


SHEPHERD    AND    FLOCK.  67 

Basking  upon  the  shallows ;  with  dark  crest, 

And  threatening  pomp,  the  swan  go  sailing  by ; 
And  many  a  wild  fowl  on  its  breast  that  shone, 
Flickering  like  liquid, silver,  in  the  joyous  sun  ; 
The  duck,  deep  poring  with  her  downward  head, 

Like  a  buoy  floating  on  the  ocean  wave  ; 
The  Spanish  goose,  like  drops  of  crystal,  shed 

The  water  o'er  him,  his  rich  plumes  to  lave ; 
The  beautiful  widgeDn,  springing  upward,  spread 

His  clapping  wings  ;  the  heron,  stalking  grave 
Into  the  stream  ;  the  coot  and  water-hen 
Vanish  into  the  flood,  then,  far  off,  rise  again : — 
Such  were  their  joys  ! 

HOWITT. 


SHEPHERD  AND  FLOCK. 

AROUND  the  adjoining  brook,  that  purls  along 
The  vocal  grove,  now  fretting  o'er  a  rock, 
Now  scarcely  moving  through  a  reedy  pool, 
Now  starting  to  a  sudden  stream,  and  now 
Gently  diffused  into  a  limpid  plain  ; 
A  various  group  the  her  Is  and  flocks  compose, 
Rural  confusion  !     On  tl  e  grassy  bank 


68  BONNET    ON    COUNTRY    LIFE. 

Some  ruminating  lie ;  while  others  stand 
Half  in  the  flood,  and  often  bending  sip 
The  circling  surface.     In  the  middle  droops 
The  strong  laborious  ox,  of  honest  front, 
Which  incomposed  he  shakes;  and  from  his  sides 
The  troublous  insects  lashes  with  his  tail, 
Returning  still.     Amid  his  subjects  safe, 
Slumbers  the  monarch-swain,  his  careless  arm 
Thrown  round  his  head,  on  downy  moss  sustained 
Here  laid  his  scrip,  with  wholesome  viands  filled ; 
There,  listening  every  noise,  his  watchful  dog. 

THOMSON. 


SONNET  ON  COUNTRY  LIFE. 

To  one  who  has  been  long  in  city  pent, 
'Tis  very  sweet  to  look  into  the  fair 
And  open  face  of  heaven, — to  breathe  a  prayer 

Full  in  the  smile  of  the  blue  firmament. 

Who  is  more  happy,  when,  with  heart's  content, 
Fatigued  he  sinks  into  some  pleasant  lair 
Of  wavy  grass,  and  reads  a  debonair 

And  gentle  tale  of  love  and  languishment  ? 

Returning  home  at  evening,  with  an  ear 
Catching  the  notes  of  Philomel, — an  eye 


MORNING     IN     SUMMER.  69 

Watching  the  sailing  cloudlet's  bright  career, 
He  mourns  that  day  so  soon  has  glided  by : 

E'en  like  the  passage  of  an  angel's  tear 
That  falls  through  .the  clear  ether  silently. 

KEATS. 


MORNING  IN   SUMMER, 

AND  soon,  observant  of  approaching  day, 
The  meek-eyed  Morn  appears,  mother  of  dews, 
At  first  faint  gleaming  in  the  dappled  east ; 
Till  far  o'er  ether  spreads  the  winding  glow, 
And  from  before  the  lustre  of  her  face 
White  break  the  clouds  away.    With  quickened  step, 
Brown  Night  retires  :  young  Day  pours  in  apace, 
And  opens  all  the  lawny  prospect  wide. 
The  dripping  rock,  the  mountain's  misty  top, 
Swell  on  the  sight,  and  brighten  with  the  dawn. 
Blue,  through  the  dusk,  the  smoking  currents  shine ; 
And  from  the  bladed  field  the  fearful  hare 
Limps,  awkward :  while  along  the  forest  glade 
The  wild  deer  trip,  and,  often  turning,  gaze 
At  early  passenger.     Music  awakes 
The  native  voice  of  undissembled  joy ; 


70  THE   WILD    BRAMBLE. 

And  thick  around  the  woodland  hymns  arise. 
Roused  by  the  cock,  the  soon-clad  shepherd  leaves 
His  mossy  cottage,  where  with  Peace  he  dwells ; 
And  from  the  crowded  fold,  in  order,  drives 
His  flock,  to  taste  the  verdure  of  the  morn. 
But  yonder  comes  the  powerful  King  of  Day, 
Rejoicing  in  the  east!     The  lessening  cloud, 
The  kindling  azure,  and  the  mountain's  brow 
Illumed  with  fluid  gold,  his  near  approach 
Betoken  glad.     Lo  !  now,  apparent  all, 
Aslant  the  dew-bright  earth,  and  colored  air, 
He  looks  in  boundless  majesty  abroad  ; 
And  sheds  the  shining  day,  that  burnished  plays 
On    rocks,    and   hills,  and    towers,   and    wandering 
streams, 

High-gleaming  from  afar. 

THOMSON. 


THE   WILD  BRAMBLE. 

THY  fruit  full  well  the  school-boy  knows, 

Wild  bramble  of  the  brake  ! 
So,  put  thou  forth  thy  small  white  rose ; 

I  love  it  for  his  sake. 


THE   WILD    BRAMBLE.  71 

Though  woodbines  flaunt  and  roses  glow 

O'er  all  the  fragrant  bowers, 
Thou  need'st  not  be  ashamed  to  show 

Thy  satin-threaded  flowers ; 
For  dull  the  eye,  the  heart  is  dull, 

That  cannot  feel  how  fair, 
Amid  all  beauty  beautiful, 

Thy  tender  blossoms  are  ! 
How  delicate  thy  gauzy  frill ! 

How  rich  thy  branchy  stem ! 
How  soft  thy  voice,  when  woods  are  still, 

And  thou  sing'st  hymns  to  them  ; 
While  silent  showers  are  falling  slow, 

And,  'mid  the  general  hush, 
A  sweet  air  lifts  the  little  bough, 

Lone  whispering  through  the  bush  ! 
The  primrose  to  the  grave  is  gone ; 

The  hawthorn  flower  is  dead ; 
The  violet  by  the  mossed  gray  stone 

Hath  laid  her  weary  head ; 
But  thou,  wild  bramble  !  back  dost  bring, 

In  all  their  beauteous  power, 
The  fresh  green  days  of  life's  fair  spring, 

And  boyhood's  blossomy  hour. 


72  SUNRISE    ABOVE    THE    CLOUDS. 

Scorned  bramble  of  the  brake  !  once  more 

Thou  bidd'st  me  be  a  boy, 
To  gad  with  thee  the  woodlands  o'er, 

In  freedom  and  in  joy. 


ELLIOTT. 


AN  EVENING  VISIT  TO   WINDERMERE 

BEHOLD  the  shades  :f  afternoon  have  fallen 
Upon  this  flowery  slope  ;  and  see — beyond — 
The  silvery  lake  is  streaked  with  placid  blue  ; 
As  if  preparing  for  the  peace  of  evening. 
How  tempting  the  landscape  shines  !     The  air 
Breathes  invitation  ;  easy  is  the  walk 
To  the  lake's  margin,  where  a  boat  lies  moored 

Beneath  her  sheltering  tree. 

WORDSWORTH. 


SUNRISE  ABOVE   THE  CLOUDS. 

I  STOOD  upon  the  hills,  when  heaven's  wide  arch 
Was  glorious  with  the  sun's  returning  march, 
And  woods  were  brightened,  and  soft  gales 
Went  forth  to  kiss  the  sun-clad  vales. 


SUNRISE    ABOVE    THE    CLOUDS. 

The  clouds  were  far  beneath  me ; — bathed  in  light, 

They  gathered  mid-day  round  the  wooded  height, 

And,  in  their  fading  glory,  shone 

Like  hosts  in  battle  overthrown, 

As  many  a  pinnacle,  with  shifting  glance, 

Through  the  gray  mist  thrust  up  its  shattered  lance, 

And  rocking  on  the  cliif  was  left 

The  dark  pine,  blasted,  bare,  and  cleft. 

The  veil  of  cloud  was  lifted,  and  below 

Glowed  the  rich  valley,  and  the  river's  flow 

Was  darkened  by  the  forest's  shade, 

Or  glistened  in  the  white  cascade ; 

Where  upward,  in  the  mellow  blush  of  day, 

The  noisy  bittern  wheeled  his  spiral  way. 

I  heard  the  distant  waters  dash, 
I  saw  the  current  whirl  and  flash, — 
And  richly,  by  the  blue  lake's  silver  beach, 
The  woods  were  bending  with  a  silent  reach. 
Then  o'er  the  vale,  with  gentle  swell,' 
The  music  of  the  village  bell 
Came  sweetly  to  the  echo-giving  hills , 
And  the  wild  horn,  whose  voice  the  woodland  fills, 
Was  ringing  to  the  merry  shout, 
That  faint  and  far  the  glen  sent  out, 

10 


74  THE    FOREST    STREAM. 

Where,  answering  to  the  sudden  shot,  thin  smoke, 
Through    thick-leaved    branches,    from    the    dingle 

broke. 

If  thou  art  worn  and  hard  beset 
With  sorrows,  that  thou  wouldst  forget, — 
If  thou  wouldst  read  a  lesson,  that  will  keep 
Thy  heart  from  fainting  and  thy  soul  from  sleep, 
Go  to  the  woods  and  hills ! — No  tears 

Dim  the  sweet  look  that  Nature  wears. 

LONGFELLOW 


THE   FOREST  STREAM. 

DELIGHTFUL  is  this  loneliness ;  it  calms 

My  heart :  pleasant  the  cool  beneath  these  elms 

That  throw  across  the  stream  a  moveless  shade. 

Here  Nature  in  her  mid-noon  whisper  speaks ; 

How  peaceful  every  sound ! — the  ring-dove's  plaint, 

Moaned  from  the  forest's  gloomiest  retreat, 

While  every  other  woodland  lay  is  mute, 

Save  when  the  wren  flits  from  her  down-coved  nest, 

And  from  the  root-sprigs  trills  her  ditty  clear, — 

The  grasshopper's  oft-pausing  chirp — the  buzz, 

Angrily  shrill,  of  moss-entangled  bee, 


SUMMER    EVE.  75 

That,  soon  as  loosed  booms  with  full  twang  away, — 
The  sudden  rushing  of  the  minnow  shoal 
Scared  from  the  shallows  by  my  passing  tread. 
Dimpling  the  water  glides,  with  here  and  there 
A  glossy  fly,  skimming  in  circlets  gay 
The  treacherous  surface,  while  the  quick-eyed  trout 
Watches  his  time  to  spring ;  or  from  above, 
Some  feathered  dam,  purveying  'mong  the  boughs, 
Darts  from  her  perch,  and  to  her  plumeless  brood 

Bears  off  the  prize  : — sad  emblem  of  man's  lot ! 

GRAHAME. 


SUMMER  EVE. 

DOWN  the  sultry  arc  of  day 
The  burning  wheels  have  urged  their  way, 
And  Eve  along  the  western  skies 
Spreads  her  intermingling  dyes  ; 
Down  the  deep,  the  miry  lane, 
Creaking  comes  the  empty  wain. 
And  driver  on  the  shaft-horse  sits, 
Whistling  now  and  then  by  fits ; 
And  oft  with  his  accustomed  call, 
Urging  on  the  sluggish  Ball. 


76  SUMMER    EVE. 

The  barn  is  still, — the  master's  gone,— 
And  thresher  puts  his  jacket  on  ; 
While  Dick  upon  the  ladder  tall 
Nails  the  dead  kite  to  the  wall. 
Here  comes  Shepherd  Jack  at  last, 
He  has  penned  the  sheepcot  fast ; 
For  'twas  but  two  nights  before 
A  lamb  was  eaten  on  the  moor ; 
His  empty  wallet  Rover  carries, — 
Now  for  Jack,  when  near  home,  tarries ; 
With  lolling  tongue  he  runs  to  try 
If  the  horse-trough  be  not  dry. 
The  milk  is  settled  in  the  pans, 
And  supper  messes  in  the  cans ; 
In  the  hovel  carts  are  wheeled, 
And  both  the  colts  are  drove  a-field : 
The  horses  are  all  bedded  up, 
And  the  ewe  is  with  the  tup. 
The  snare  for  Mister  Fox  is  set, 
The  leaven  laid,  the  thatching  wet, 
And  Bess  has  slinked  away  to  talk 
With  Roger  in  the  holly  walk. 
Now  on  the  settle  all  but  Bess 
Are  set,  to  eat  their  supper  mess ; 


SUMMER    EVE.  77 

And  little  Tom  and  roguish  Kate 
Are  swinging  on  the  meadow  gate. 
Now  they  chat  of  various  things, — 
Of  taxes,  ministers,  and  kings  ; 
Or  else  tell  all  the  village  news, — 
How  madam  did  the  'squire  refuse, 
How  parson  on  his  tithes  was  bent, 
And  landlord  oft  distrained  for  rent. 
Thus  do  they,  till  in  the  sky 
The  pale-eyed  moon  is  mounted  high. 
The  mistress  sees  that  lazy  Kate 
The  happing  coal  on  kitchen  grate 
Has  laid, — while  master  goes  throughout, 
Sees  shutters  fast,  the  mastiff  out ; 
The  candles  safe,  the  hearths  all  clear, 
And  nought  from  thieves  or  fire  to  fear ; 
Then  both  to  bed  together  creep, 
And  join  the  general  troop  of  sleep. 

KlItKK  WillTE. 


78  THE    RAIN. 

LEAFY    JUNE. 

Now  come  the  rosy  June,  and  blue-eyed  Hours, 
With  song  of  birds,  and  stir  of  leaves  and  wings, 
And  run  of  rills  and  bubble  of  bright  springs, 
And  hourly  bursts  of  pretty  buds  to  flowers  ; 
With  buzz  of  happy  bees  in  violet  bowers, 
And  gushing  lay  of  the  loud  lark,  wbo  sings 
High  in  the  silent  sky,  and  sleeks  his  wings 
In  frequent  sheddings  of  the  flying  showers ; 
With  plunge  of  struggling  sheep  in  plashy  floods, 
And  timid  bleat  of  shorn  and  shivering  lamb, 
Answered  in  far-off  faintness  by  its  dam  ; 
With  cuckoo's  call  from  green  depths  of  old  woods ; 
And  hum  of  many  sounds,  making  one  voice, 
That  sweetens  the  smooth  air  with  a  melodious  noise. 

WEBBE. 


THE   RAIN. 

How  beautiful  is  the  rain  ! 

After  the  dust  and  heat, 

In  the  broad  and  fiery  street, 

In  the  narrow  lane, 

How  beautiful  is  the  rain  ! 


THE    RAIN.  79 

How  it  clatters  along  the  roofs, 

Like  the  tramp  of  hoofs  ! 

How  it  gushes  and  struggles  out 

From  the  throat  of  the  overflowing  spout ! 

Across  the  window-pane 

It  pours  and  pours  ; 

And  swift  and  wide, 

With  a  muddy  tide, 

Like  a  river  down  the  gutter  roars 

The  rain,  the  welcome  rain  ! 

The  sick  man  from  his  chamber  looks 

At  the  twisted  brooks ; 

He  can  feel  the  cool 

Breath  of  each  little  pool ; 

His  fevered  brain 

Grows  calm  again, 

And  he  breathes  a  blessing  on  the  rain. 

From  the  neighboring  school 

Come  the  boys, 

With  more  than  their  wonted  noise 

And  commotion  ; 

And  down  the  wet  streets 


80  THE    RAIN. 

Sail  their  mimic  fleets, 
Till  the  treacherous  pool 
Engulphs  them  in  its  whirling 
And  turbulent  ocean. 

In  the  country,  on  every  side, 

Where  far  and  wide, 

Like  a  leopard's  tawny  and  spotted  hide, 

Stretches  the  plain, 

To  the  dry  grass  and  the  drier  grain 

How  welcome  is  the  rain  ! 

In  the  furrowed  land 

The  toilsome  and  patient  oxen  stand; 

Lifting  the  yoke-encumhered  head, 

With  their  dilated  nostrils  spread, 

They  silently  inhale 

The  clover-scented  gale, 

And  the  vapors  that  arise 

From  the  well-watered  and  smoking  soil. 

For  this  rest  in  the  furrow  after  toil 

Their  large  and  lustrous  eyes 

Seem  to  thank  the  Lord, 

More  than  man's  spoken  word. 


THE    RAIN.  81 


Near  at  hand, 

From  under  the  sheltering  trees, 

The  farmer  sees 

His  pastures  and  his  fields  of  grain. 

As  they  hend  their  tops 

To  the  numberless  beating  drops 

Of  the  incessant  rain, 

He  counts  it  as  no  sin 

That  he  sees  therein 

Only  his  own- thrift  and  gain. 

These,  and  far  more  than  these, 

The  poet  sees ! 

He  can  behold 

Aquarius  old 

Walking  the  fenceless  fields  of  air ; 

And  from  each  ample  fold 

Of  the  clouds  about  him  rolled, 

Scattering  everywhere 

The  showery  rain, 

As  the  farmer  scatters  his  grain. 

He  can  behold 
Things  manifold 

That  have  not  yet  been  wholly  told, 
11 


82  T  H  E     R  A I N. 

Have  not  been  wholly  sung  nor  said. 

For  his  thought  that  never  stops, 

Follows  the  water-drops 

Down  to  the  graves  of  the  dead, 

Down  through  chasms  and  gulfs  profound, 

To  the  dreary  fountain-head 

Of  lakes  and  rivers  under  ground  ; 

And  sees  them,  when  the  rain  is  done, 

On  the  bridge  of  colors  seven 

Climbing  up  once  more  to  heaven 

Opposite  the  setting  sun. 

Thus  the  Seer, 

With  vision  clear, 

Sees  forms  appear  and  disappear, 

In  the  perpetual  round  of  strange. 

Mysterious  change, 

From  birth  to  death,  from  death  to  birth, 

From  earth  to  heaven,  from  heaven  to  earth, 

Till  glimpses  more  sublime 

Of  things,  unseen  before, 

Unto  his  wondering  eyes  reveal 

The  Universe,  as  an  immeasurable  wheel 

Turning  for  evermore 

In  the  rapid  and  rushing  river  of  Time. 

LONGFELLOW 


A    SUMMER    LANDSCAPE.  83 

A   SUMMER   LANDSCAPE. 

Now  roves  the  eye ; 
And  posted  on  this  speculative  height, 
Exults  in  its  command.     The  sheepfold  here 
Pours  out  its  fleecy  tenants  o'er  the  glebe. 
At  first,  progressive  as  a  stream,  they  seek 
The  middle  field  ;  but,  scattered  by  degrees, 
Each  to  his  choice,  soon  whiten  all  the  land. 
There  from  the  sun-burnt  hay-field  homeward  creeps 
The  loaded  wain ;  while,  lightened  of  its  charge, 
The  wain  that  meets  it  passes  swiftly  by ; 
The  boorish  driver  leaning  o'er  his  team 
Vociferous,  and  impatient  of  delay. 
Nor  less  attractive  is  the  woodland  scene, 
Diversified  with  trees  of  every  growth, 
Alike,  yet  various..     Here  the  gray  smooth  trunks 
Of  ash,  or  lime,  or  beech,  distinctly  shine, 
Within  the  twilight  of  their  distant  shades ; 
There,  lost  behind  a  rising  ground,  the  wood 
Seems  sunk,  and  shortened  to  its  topmost  boughs. 
No  tree  in  all  the  grove  but  has  its  charms, 
Though  each  its  hue  peculiar  ;  paler  some, 
And  of  a  wannish  gray  ;  the  willow  such, 


84  A   JUNE    DAY. 

And  poplar,  that  with  silver  lines  its  leaf, 
And  ash  far-stretching  his  umbrageous  arm  ; 
Of  deeper  green  the  elm  ;  and  deeper  still, 
Lord  of  the  woods,  the  long-surviving  oak. 
Some  glossy-leaved,  and  shining  in  the  sun, 
The  maple,  and  the  beech  of  oily  nuts 
Prolific,  and  the  lime  at  dewy  eve 
Diffusing  odors  :  nor  unnoted  pass 
The  sycamore,  capricious  in  attire, 
Now  green,  now  tawny,  and,  ere  autumn  yet 
Have  changed  the  woods,  in  scarlet  honors  bright. 

COWPER. 


A  JUNE  DAY. 

WHO  has  not  dreamed  a  world  of  bliss, 
On  a  bright,  sunny  noon  like  this, 
Couched  by  his  native  brook's  green  maze, 
With  comrade  of  his  boyish  days? 
While  all  around  them  seemed  to  be 
Just  as  in  joyous  infancy. 
Who  has  not  loved,  at  such  an  hour, 
Upon  that  heath,  in  birchen  bower, 
Lulled  in  the  poet's  dreamy  mood, 
Its  wild  and  sunny  solitude  ? 


AJUNEDAY.  85 

While  o'er  the  waste  of  purple  ling 
You  marked  a  sultry  glimmering ; 
Silence  herself  there  seems  to  sleep, 
Wrapped  in  a  slumber  long  and  deep, 
Where  slowly  stray  those  lonely  sheep 
Through  the  tall  fox-glove's  crimson  bloom, 
And  gleaming  of  the  scattered  broom. 
Love  you  not,  then,  to  list  and  hear 
The  crackling  of  the  gorse-flowers  near, 
Pouring  an  orange-scented  tide 
Of  fragrance  o'er  the  desert  wide  ? 
To  hear  the  buzzard  whimpering  shrill 
Hovering  above  you  high  and  still  ? 
The  twittering  of  the  bird  that  dwells 
Amongst  the  heath's  delicious  bells  ? 
While  round  your  bed,  or  fern  and  blade, 
Insects  in  green  and  gold  arrayed, 
The  sun's  gay  tribes  have  lightly  strayed  ; 
And  sweeter  sound  their  humming  wings 
Than  the  proud  minstrel's  echoing  strings. 

HOWITT. 


86  THE    COUNTRY    WALK. 


THE   COUNTRY   WALK. 

THE  morning's  fair,  the  lusty  sun 
With  ruddy  cheek  begins  to  run ; 
And  early  birds,  that  wing  the  skies, 
Sweetly  sing  to  see  him  rise. 

I  am  resolved,  this  charming  day, 
In  the  open  field  to  stray ; 
And  have  no  roof  above  my  head, 

But  that  whereon  the  gods  do  tread. 
****** 

A  landscape  wide  salutes  my  sight, 
Of  shady  vales,  and  mountains  bright ; 
And  azure  heavens  I  behold, 
And  clouds  of  silver  and  of  gold. 
And  now  into  the  fields  I  go, 
Where  thousand  flaming  flowers  glow ; 
And  every  neighboring  hedge  I  greet, 
With  honeysuckles  smelling  sweet. 
Now  o'er  the  daisy  meads  I  stray, 
And  meet  with,  as  I  pace  my  way, 
Sweetly  shining  on  the  eye, 
A  rivulet  gliding  smoothly  by ; 


THE    COUNTRY    WALK.  87 

Which  shows  with  what  an  easy  tide 

The  moments  of  the  happy  glide. 

****** 

The  sun  now  shows  his  noontide  blaze, 
And  sheds  around  me  burning  rays ; 
A  little  onward,  and  I  go 
Into  the  shade  that  groves  bestow  ; 
And  on  green  moss  I  lay  me  down, 
That  o'er  the  root  of  oak  has  grown ; 
Where  all  is  silent,  but  some  flood 
That  sweetly  murmurs  in  the  wood ; 
But  birds  that  warble  in  the  sprays, 

And  charm  e'en  silence  with  their  lays. 
****** 

See  !  yonder  hill,  uprising  steep, 
Above  the  river  slow  and  deep  : 
It  looks  from  hence  a  pyramid, 
Beneath  a  verdant  forest  hid ; 
On  whose  high  top  there  rises  great, 
The  mighty  remnant  of  a  seat, 
An  old  green  tower,  whose  battered  brow 
Frowns  upon  the  vale  below. 

Look  upon  that  flowery  plain, 
How  the  sheep  surround  their  swain, — 


88  THE    COUNTRY    WALK. 

How  they  crowd  to  hear  his  strain ! 
All  careless  with  his  legs  across, 
Leaning  on  a  bank  of  moss, 
He  spends  his  empty  hours  at  play, 
Which  fly  as  light  as  down  away. 

And  there  behold  a  bloomy  mead, 
A  silver  stream,  a  willow  shade, 
Beneath  the  shade  a  fisher  stand, 
Who,  with  the  angle  in  his  hand, 
Swings  the  nibbling  fry  to  land. 

In  blushes  the  descending  sun 
Kisses  the  streams,  while  slow  they  run ; 
And  yonder  hill  remoter  grows, 
Or  dusky  clouds  to  interpose. 
The  fields  are  left,  the  laboring  hind 
His  weary  oxen  does  unbind ; 
And  vocal  mountains,  as  they  low, 
Re-echo  to  the  vales  below  ; 
The  jocund  shepherds  piping  come, 
And  drive  the  herd  before  them  home ; 
And  now  begin  to  light  their  fires, 
Which  send  up  smoke  in  curling  spires ! 
While  with  light  hearts  all 'home  ward  tend, 

To  Abergasney  I  descend. 

DYEK. 


THE 


POETEY  OF  AUTUMN. 


THE  POETHY  OF  AUTUMN. 


HARVEST-HOME. 

SUMMER'S  toiling  now  is  past ; 
Harvest  now  hath  sent  her  last — 

Her  last,  last  load. 
If  the  field  containeth  more, 
Master,  give  it  to  the  poor, 

Abroad — abroad. 

Let  them  through  the  corn-field  roam, 
While  we  welcome  harvest-home, — 

Harvest-home,  harvest-home, — 
While  we  welcome  harvest-home  : 
Songs  shall  sound  ac.d  ale-cups  foam, 

While  we  welcome  harvest-home. 

MILLER. 

(91) 


92  HARVESTFIELD. 


HARVEST  FIELD. 

SOON  as  the  morning  trembles  o'er  the  sky, 
And,  unperceived,  unfolds  the  spreading  day ; 
Before  the  ripened  field  the  reapers  stand 
In  fair  array  ;  each  by  the  lass  he  loves, 
To  bear  the  rougher  part,  and  mitigate 
By  nameless  gentle  offices  her  toil. 
At  once  they  stoop  and  swell  the  lusty  sheaves ; 
While  through  their  cheerful  band  the  rural  talk, 
The  rural  scandal,  and  the  rural  jest, 
Fly  harmless,  to  deceive  the  tedious  time, 
And  steal  unfelt  the  sultry  hours  away. 
Behind  the  master  walks,  builds  up  the  shock ; 
And,  conscious,  glancing  oft  on  every  side 
His  sated  eye,  feels  his  heart  heave  with  joy. 
The  gleaners  spread  around,  and  here  and  there, 
Spike  after  spike,  their  scanty  harvest  pick. 
Be  not  too  narrow,  husbandmen  !  but  fling 
From  the  full  sheaf,  with  charitable  stealth, 
The  liberal  handful.     Think,  oh,  grateful  think, 
How  good  the  God  of  Harvest  is  to  you, 
Who  pours  abundance  o'er  your  flowing  fields : 


AUTUMNAL    MORNING.  93 

While  these  unhappy  partners  of  your  kind 
Wide  hover  round  you,  like  the  fowls  of  heaven, 

And  ask  their  humble  dole. 

THOMSON. 


AUTUMNAL  MORNING. 

THERE  is  a  quiet  spirit  in  these  woods, 
That  dwells  where'er  the  gentle  south  wind  blows; 
Where,  underneath  the  white-thorn,  in  the  glade, 
The  wild  flowers  bloom,  or  kissing  the  soft  air, 
The  leaves  above  their  sunny  palms  outspread. 
With  what  a  tender  and  impassioned  voice 
It  fills  the  nice  and  delicate  ear  of  thought, 
When  the  fast  ushering  star  of  morning  comes 
O'er-riding  the  gray  hills  with  golden  scarf; 
Or  when  the  cowled  and  dusky-sandalled  Eve, 
In  mourning  weeds,  from  out  the  western  gate, 
Departs  with  silent  pace  !     That  spirit  moves 
In  the  green  valley,  where  the  silver  brook, 
From  its  full  laver,  pours  the  white  cascade ; 
And,  babbling  low  amid  the  tangled  woods, 
Slips  down  through  moss-grown  stones  with  endless 
laughter. 


94  AUTUMNAL    MORNING. 

And  frequent,  on  the  everlasting  hills, 

Its  feet  go  forth,  when  it  doth  wrap  itself 

In  all  the  dark  embroidery  of  the  storm, 

And  shouts  the  stern,  strong  wind.     And  here,  amid 

The  silent  majesty  of  these  deep  woods, 

Its  presence  shall  uplift  thy  thoughts  from  earth, 

As  to  the  sunshine  and  the  pure  bright  air 

Their  tops  the  green  trees  lift.     Hence  gifted  bards 

Have  ever  loved  the  calm  and  quiet  shades ; 

For  them  there  was  an  eloquent  voice  in  all 

The  sylvan  pomp  of  woods,  the  golden  sun, 

The  flowers,  the  leaves,  the  river  on  its  way, 

Blue  skies,  and  silver  clouds,  and  gentle  winds, — 

The  swelling  upland,  where  the  sidelong  sun 

Aslant  the  wooded  slope,  at  evening,  goes, — 

Groves,  through  whose  broken  roof  the  sky  looks  in, 

Mountain,  and  shattered  cliff,  and  sunny  vale, 

The  distant  lake,  fountains,  and  mighty  trees, 

In  many  a  lazy  syllable  repeating 

Their  old  poetic  legends  to  the  wind. 

LONGFELLOW. 


BEAUTIES     OF    AUTUMN.  95 


BEAUTIES  OF  AUTUMN. 

THE  month  is  now  far  spent ;  and  the  meridian  sun, 

Most  sweetly  smiling,  with  attempered  beams, 

Sheds  gently  down  a  mild  and  grateful  warmth ; 

Beneath  its  yellow  lustre,  groves  and  woods, 

Chequered  by  one  night's  frost  with  various  hues, 

While  yet  no  wind  has  swept  a  leaf  away, 

Shine  doubly  rich.     It  were  a  sad  delight 

Down  the  smooth  stream  to  glide,  and  see  it  tinged 

Upon  each  brink  with  all  the  gorgeous  hues, 

The  yellow,  red,  or  purple  of  the  trees 

That  singly,  or  in  tufts,  or  forests  thick, 

Adorn  the  shores ; — to  see,  perhaps,  the  side 

Of  some  high  mount  reflected  far  below, 

With  its  bright  colors  intermixed  with  spots 

Of  darker  green.     Yes,  it  were  sweetly  sad 

To  wander  in  the  open  fields,  and  hear, 

E'en  at  this  hour,  the  noon-day  hardly  past, 

The  lulling  insects  of  the  summer's  night ; 

To  hear,  where  lately  buzzing  swarms  were  heard, 

A  lonely  bee,  long  roving  here  and  there 

To  find  a  single  flower,  but  all  in  vain ; 


96  THE    GIPSY    ENCAMPMENT. 

Then  rising  quick,  and  with  a  louder  hum, 

In  widening  circles  round  and  round  his  head, 

Straight  by  the  listener  flying  clear  away, 

As  if  to  bid  the  fields  a  last  adieu  ; 

To  hear,  within  the  woodland's  sunny  side, 

Late  full  of  music,  nothing  save,  perhaps, 

The  sound  of  nut-shells,  by  the  squirrel  dropped 

JFrom  some  tall  beech,  fast  falling  through  the  leaves 

WlLCOX. 


THE   GIPSY  ENCAMPMENT. 

I  SEE  a  column  of  slow-rising  smoke 

O'ertop  the  lofty  wood  that  skirts  the  wild. 

A  vagabond  and  useless  tribe  there  eat 

Their  miserable  meal.     A  kettle,  slung 

Between  two  poles  upon  a  stick  transverse, 

Receives  the  morsel — flesh  obscene  of  dog, 

Or  vermin,  or  at  best  of  cock  purloined 

From  his  accustomed  perch.     Hard-faring  race, 

They  pick  their  fuel  out  of  every  hedge, 

Which,  kindled  with  dry  leaves,  just  saves  unquenched 

The  spark  of  life. 

COWPER. 


NUTTING.  97 


NUTTING. 

IT  seems  a  day, 

(I  upeak  of  one  from  many  singled  out) 
One  of  those  heavenly  days  which  cannot  die ; 
When,  in  the  eagerness  of  boyish  hope, 
I  left  our  cottage-threshold,  sallying  forth 
"With  a  huge  wallet  o'er  my  shoulder  slung, 
A  nutting-crook  in  hand,  and  turned  my  steps 
Towards  the  distant  woods,  a  figure  quaint, 
Tricked  out  in  proud  disguise  of  cast-off  weeds, 
Which  for  that  service  had  been  husbanded, 
By  exhortation  of  my  frugal  dame. 
Motley  accoutrement,  of  power  to  smile 
At  thorns,  and  brakes,  and  brambles, — and,  in  truth, 
More  ragged  than  need  was  !     Among  the  woods, 
And  o'er  the  pathless  rocks,  I  forced  my  way, 
Until,  at  length,  I  came  to  one  dear  nook 
Unvisited,  where  not  a  broken  bough 
Drooped  with  its  withered  leaves,  ungracious  sign 
Of  devastation,  but  the  hazels  rose 
Tall  and  erect,  with  milk-white  clusters  hung, 
A  virgin  scene  ! — A  little  while  I  stood, 
Breathing  with  such  suppression  of  the  heart 

13 


1*8  NUTTING. 

As  joy  delights  in  ;  and,  with  wise  restraint 
Voluptuous,  fearless  of  a  rival,  eyed 

• 

The  banquet, — or  beneath  the  trees  I  sate 

Among  the  flowers,  and  with  the  flowers  1  played: 

A  temper,  known  to  those,  who,  after  long 

And  weary  expectation,  have  been  blest 

With  sudden  happiness  beyond  all  hope. — 

Perhaps  it  was  a  bower  beneath  whose  leaves 

The  violets  of  five  seasons  reappear 

And  fade,  unseen  by  any  human  eye ; 

Where  fairy  waterbreaks  do  murmur  on 

Forever, — and  I  saw  the  sparkling  foam, 

And  with  my  cheek  on  one  of  those  green  stones 

That,  fleeced  with  moss,  beneath  the  shady  trees, 

Lay  round  me,  scattered  like  a  flock  of  sheep, 

I  heard  the  murmur  and  the  murmuring  sound, 

In  that  sweet  mood  when  pleasure  loves  to  pay 

Tribute  to  ease ;  and  of  its  joy  secure, 

The  heart  luxuriates  with  indifferent  things, 

Wasting  its  kindliness  on  stocks  and  stones, 

And  on  the  vacant  air.     Then  up  I  rose, 

And  dragged  to  earth  both  branch  and  bough,  with 

crash 
And  merciless  ravage ;  and  the  sh^4y  nook 


SERENITY    OF    AUTUMN.  99 

Of  hazels,  and  the  green  and  mossy  bower, 
Deformed  and  sullied,  patiently  gave  up 
Their  quiet  being :  and,  unless  I  now 
Confound  my  present  feelings  with  the  past, 
Even  then,  when  from  the  bower  I  turned  away 
Exulting,  rich  beyond  the  wealth  of  kings, 
I  felt  a  sense  of  pain  when  I  beheld 
The  silent  trees  and  the  intruding  sky. — 
Then,  dearest  Maiden !  move  along  these  shades 
In  gentleness  of  heart !  with  gentle  hand 

Touch — for  there  is  a  spirit  in  the  woods. 

WORDSWORTH. 


SERENITY   OF  AUTUMN. 

BUT  see  the  fading  many-colored  woods, 
Shade  deepening  over  shade,  the  country  round 
Imbrown  ;  a  crowded  umbrage,  dusk  and  dun, 
Of  every  hue,  from  wan  declining  green 
To  sooty  dark.     These  now  the  lonesome  Muse, 
Low  whispering,  lead  into  their  leaf-strown  walks, 
And  give  the  season  in  its  latest  view. 

Meantime,  light  shadowing  all,  a  sober  calm 
Fleeces  unbounded  ether:  whose  least  wave 
Stands  tremulous,  uncertain  where  to  turn 


100  SERENITY    OF    AUTUMN. 

The  gentle  current :  while  illumined  wide, 
The  dewy-skirted  clouds  imbibe  the  sun, 
And  through  their  lucid  veil  his  softened  force 
Shed  o'er  the  peaceful  world.     Then  is  the  time, 
For  those  whom  Virtue  and  whom  Nature  charm, 
To  steal  themselves  from  the  degenerate  crowd, 
And  soar  above  this  little  scene  of  things ; 
To  tread  low-thoughted  Vice  beneath  their  feet ; 
To  soothe  the  throbbing  passions  into  peace  ; 
And  woo  lone  Quiet  in  her  silent  walks. 

Thus  solitary,  and  in  pensive  guise, 
Oft  let  me  wander  o'er  the  russet  mead, 
And  through  the  saddened   grove,  where  scarce 

heard 

One  dying  strain,  to  cheer  the  woodman's  toil. 
Haply  some  widowed  songster  pours  his  plaint, 
Far,  in  faint  warblings,  through  the  tawny  copse ; 
While  congregated  thrushes,  linnets,  larks, 
And  each  wild  throat,  whose  artless  strains  so  late 
Swelled  all  the  music  of  the  swarming  shades, 
Robbed  of  their  tuneful  souls,  now  shivering  sit 
On  the  dead  tree,  a  dull  despondent  flock ; 
With  not  a  brightness  waving  o'er  their  plumes, 
And  nought  save  chattering  discord  in  their  note. 

THOMSON. 


A    DAY    IN    AUTUMN.  101 

TEARS. 

(FROM  "  THE  PRINCESS.") 

TEARS,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean. 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 
fn  looking  on  the  happy  Autumn  fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

TENNYSON. 


A   DAY  IN   AUTUMN. 

THERE  was  not,  on  that  day,  a  speck  to  stain 
The  azure  heaven ;  the  blessed  Sun,  alone, 
In  unapproachable  divinity, 
Careered,  rejoicing  in  his  fields  of  light. 
How  beautiful,  beneath  the  bright  blue  sky, 
The  billows  heave  !  one  glowing  green  expanse, 
Save  where  along  the  bending  line  of  shore 
Such  hue  is  known  as  when  the  peacock's  neck 
Assumes  its  proudest  tint  of  amethyst, 
Embathed  in  emerald  glory.     All  the  flocks 
Of  Ocean  are  abroad :  like  floating  foam, 


102  MOUNTAIN     SCENE. 

The  sea-gulls  rise  and  fall  upon  the  waves ; 
With  long-protruded  neck  the  cormorants 
Wing  their  far  flight  aloft,  and  round  and  round 
The  plovers  wheel,  and  give  their  note  of  joy. 
It  was  a  day  that  sent  into  the  heart 
A  summer  feeling :  even  the  insect  swarms 
From  their  dark  nooks  and  coverts  issued  forth, 
To  sport  through  one  day  of  existence  more  ; 
The  solitary  primrose  on  the  bank 
Seemed  now  as  though  it  had  no  cause  to  mourn 
Its  bleak  autumnal  birth  ;  the  rocks  and  shores, 
The  Forest,  and  the  everlasting  Hills, 
Smiled  in  that  joyful  Sunshine, — they  partook 

The  universal  blessing. 

SOUTHED. 


iMOUNTAIN    SCENE. 

THE  Sun,  whose  eastern  ray  had  scarcely  gilt 
The  mountain's  brow,  while  up  the  steep  ascent 
With  early  step  we  climbed,  now  wide  displays 
His  radiant  orb,  and  half  his  daily  stage 
Hath  nearly  measured.     From  th'  illumined  vale 
The  soaring  mists  are  drained,  and  o'er  the  hill 


MOUNTAIN    SCENE.  103 

No  more  breathes  grateful  the  cool  balmy  air, 
Cheering  our  search,  and  urging  on  our  steps 
Delightful.     See,  the  languid  herds  forsake 
The  burning  mead,  and  creep  beneath  the  shade 
Of  spreading  tree,  or  sheltering  hedge-row  tall : 
Or,  in  the  mantling  pool,  rude  reservoir 
Of  wintry  rains,  and  the  slow  thrifty  spring, 
Cooi  their  parched  limbs,  and  lave  their  panting  sides. 

Let  us  too  seek  the  shade.     Yon  airy  dome, 
Beneath  whose  lofty  battlements  we  found 
A  covert  passage  to  these  sultry  realms, 
Invites  our  drooping  strength,  and  Well  befriends 
The  pleasing  comment  on  fair  Nature's  book, 

In  sumptuous  volume,  opened  to  our  view. 

******** 

'Tis  well !    Here  sheltered  from  the  scorching  heat, 
At  large  we  view  the  subject  vale  sublime 
And  unimpeded.     Hence  its  limits  trace 
Stretching,  in  wanton  boundary,  from  the  foot 
Of  this  green  mountain,  far  as  human  ken 
Can  reach, — a  theatre  immense  !  adorned 
With  ornaments  of  sweet  variety, 
By  Nature's  pencil  drawn — the  level  meads, 
A  verdant  floor !  with  brightest  gems  inlaid, 


104  MOUNTAIN    SCENE. 

And  richly-painted  flowers — the  tillaged  plain, 

Wide-waving  to  the  sun  a  rival  blaze 

Of  gold,  best  source  of  wealth  ! — the  prouder  hills, 

With  outline  fair,  in  naked  pomp  displayed, 

Round,  angular,  oblong ;  and  others  crowned 

With  graceful  foliage.     Over  all  her  horn 

Fair  Plenty  pours,  and  cultivation  spreads 

Her  heightening  lustre.     See,  beneath  her  touch 

The  smiling  harvests  rise,  with  bending  line, 

And  wavy  ridge,  along  the  dappled  glebe 

Stretching  their  lengthened  beds.     Her  careful  hand 

Piles  up  the  yeltow  grain,  or  rustling  hay 

Adust  for  wintry  store — the  long-ridged  mow, 

Or  shapely  pyramid,  with  conic  roof, 

Dressing  the  landscape.     She  the  thick-wove  fence 

Nurses,  and  adds  with  care  the  hedge-row  elm. 

Around  her  farms  and  villages  she  plans 

The  rural  garden,  yielding  wholesome  food 

Of  simple  viands,  and  the  fragrant  herb 

Medicinal.     The  well-ranged  orchard  now 

She  orders,  or  the  sheltering  clump,  or  tuft 

Of  hardy  trees,  the  wintry  storms  to  curb 

Or  guard  the  sweet  retreat  of  village  swain, 

With  health  and  plenty  crowned. 

JAGO. 


TO    A    WILD    DEER.  105 


TO   A   WILD   DEER. 

FIT  couch  of  repose  for  a  pilgrim  like  thee ! 
Magnificent  prison  enclosing  the  free  ! 
With  rock  wall-encircled — with  precipice  crowned — 
Which,  awoke  by  the  sun,  thou  canst  clear  at  a  bound. 
'Mid  the  fern  and  the  heather  kind  Nature  doth  keep 
One  bright  spot  of  green  for  her  favorite's  sleep ; 
And  close  to  that  covert,  as  clear  as  the  skies 
When  their  blue  depths  are  cloudless,  a  little  lake  lies, 
Where  the  creature  at  rest  can  his  image  behold, 
Looking  up  through  the  radiance  as  bright  and  as 

bold! 

How  lonesome  !  how  wild  !  yet  the  wildness  is  rife 
With  the  stir  of  enjoyment — the  spirit  of  life. 
The  glad  fish  leaps  up  in  the  heart  of  the  lake, 
Whose  depths  at  the  sullen  plunge  sullenly  quake ! 
Elate  on  the  fern-branch  the  grasshopper  sings, 
And  away  in  the  midst  of  his  roundelay  springs ; 
'Mid  the  flowers  of  the  heath,  not  more  bright  than 

himself, 

The  wild  bee  is  busy,  a  musical  elf  !— 

14 


106  AUTUMN. 

Then  starts  from  his  labor,  unwearied  and  gay, 
And  circling  the  antlers,  booms  far,  far  away. 
While  high  up  the  mountains,  in  silence  remote, 
The  cuckoo  unseen  is  repeating  his  note, 
And  mellowing  Echo,  on  watch  in  the  skies, 
Like  a  voice  from  a  loftier  climate  replies. 
With  wild  branching  antlers,  a  guard  to  his  breast, 
There  lies  the  wild  creature,  even  stately  in  rest ; 
'Mid  the  grandeur  of  Nature,  composed  and  serene, 
And  proud  in  his  heart  of  the  mountainous  scene, 
He  lifts  his  calm  eye  to  the  eagle  and  raven, 
At  noon    sinking   down    on   smooth  wings   to   their 

haven, 
As  if  in  his  soul  the  bold  animal  smiled 

To  his  friends  of  the  sky,  the  joint-heirs  of  the  wild. 

WILSON. 


AUTUMN. 

SEASON  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness  ! 

Close  bosom-friend  of  the  maturing  sun  ; 
Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  bless 

With  fruit  the  vines  that  round  the  thatch-eaves 
run ; 


AUTUMN.  107 

To  bend  with  apples  the  mossed  cottage  trees, 
And  fill  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the  core ; 

To  swell  the  gourd  and  plump  the  hazel-shells 
With  a  sweet  kernel ;  to  set  budding  more, 
And  still  more,  later  flowers  for  the  bees, 
Until  they  think  warm  days  will  never  cease, 

For   summer    has    o'erbrimmed    their    clammy 
cells. 

Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store  ? 

Sometimes,  whoever  seeks  abroad  may  find 
Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor, 

Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing  wind ; 
Or  on  a  half-reaped  furrow  sound  asleep, 

Drowsed  with  the  fume  of  poppies,  while  thy  hook 
Spares  the  next  swarth  and  all  its  twined  flowers ; 
And  sometimes  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost  keep 

Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook  ; 

Or  by  a  cider-press,  with  patient  look, 

Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings,  hours  by  hours. 

Where  are  the  songs  of  Spring?    Ay,  where  are  they? 
Think  not  of  them,  thou  hast  thy  music  too, 


108  AUTUMN. 

While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft  dying  day, 
And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy  hue  ; 
.Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small  gnats  mourn 
Among  the  river  sallows,  borne  aloft 

Or  sinking  as  the  light  wind  lives  or  dies ; 
And  full-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly  bourn ; 
Hedge-crickets  sing ;  and  now  with  treble  soft 
The  redbreast  whistles  from  a  garden  croft, 
And  gathering  swallows  twitter  in  the  skies. 

KEATS. 


THF 


POETRY  OF   WINTER. 


FT 


THE  POETRY  OF  WINTER 


WINTER. 

SEE  !  Winter  comes,  to  rule  the  varied  year, 

Sullen  and  sad,  with  all  his  rising  train  ; 

Vapors,  and  clouds,  and  storms.    Be  these  my  theme, 

These  !  that  exalt  the  soul  to  solemn  thought, 

And  heavenly  musing.     Welcome,  kindred  glooms  ! 

Congenial  horrors,  hail !  with  frequent  foot, 

Pleased  have  I,  in  my  cheerful  morn  of  life, 

When  nursed  by  careless  solitude  I  lived, 

And  sung  of  nature  with  unceasing  joy, — 

Pleased  have  I  wandered  through  your  rough  domain  ; 

Trod  the  pure  virgin  snows,  myself  as  pure. 

THOMSON. 


112  FARM-YARD    IN    WINTER. 

FARM-YARD  IN   WINTER. 

WHEN  now,  unsparing  as  the  scourge  of  war, 
Blasts  follow  blasts,  and  groves  dismantled  roar, 
Around  their  home  the  storm-pinched  cattle  lows, 
No  nourishment  in  frozen  pastures  grows ; 
Yet  frozen  pastures  every  morn  resound 
With  fair  abundance  thund'ring  to  the  ground. 
For  though  on  hoary  twigs  no  buds  peep  out, 
And  e'en  the  hardy  brambles  cease  to  sprout, 
Beneath  dread  Winter's  level  sheets  of  snow 
The  sweet  nutritious  turnip  deigns  to  grow ; 
Till  now  imperious  want  and  wide-spread  dearth 
Bid  Labor  claim  her  treasures  from  the  earth. 
On  driving  gales  sharp  hail  indignant  flies, 
And  sleet,  more  irksome  still,  assails  his  eyes  ; 
Snow  clogs  his  feet ;  or  if  no  snow  is  seen, 
The  field  with  all  its  juicy  store  to  screen, 
Deep  goes  the  frost,  till  every  root  is  found 
A  rolling  mass  of  ice  upon  the  ground. 
No  tender  ewe  can  break  her  nightly  fast, 
Nor  heifer  strong  begin  the  cold  repast, 
Till  Giles  with  pond'rous  beetle  foremost  go, 
And  scatt'ring  splinters  fly  at  every  blow : 


FARM-YARD    IN    WINTER.  113 

When  pressing  round  him,  eager  for  the  prize, 
From  their  mixed  breath  warm  exhalations  rise. 

Though  night  approaching  bids  for  rest  prepare, 
Still  the  flail  echoes  through  the  frosty  air, 
Nor  stops  till  deepest  shades  of  darkness  come, 
Sending  at  length  the  weary  laborer  home. 
From  him,  with  bed  and  nightly  food  supplied, 
Throughout  the  yard,  housed  round  on  every  side, 
Deep-plunging  cows  their  rustling  feast  enjoy, 
And  snatch  sweet  mouthfuls  from  the  passing  boy, 
Who  moves  unseen  beneath  his  trailing  load, 
Fills  the  tall  racks  and  leaves  a  scattered  road ; 
Where  oft  the  swine  from  ambush  warm  and  dry 
Bolt  out,  and  scamper  headlong  to  their  sty, 
When  Giles,  with  well-known  voice,  already  there, 
Deigns  them  a  portion  of  his  evening  care. 
From  the  fireside  with  many  a  shrug  he  hies, 
Glad  if  the  full-orbed  moon  salute  his  eyes, 
And  through  th'  unbroken  stillness  of  the  night 
Shed  on  his  path  her  beams  of  cheering  light. 
With  saunt'ring  step  he  climbs  the  distant  stile, 
Whilst  all  around  him  wears  a  placid  smile  ; 
There  views  the  white-robed  clouds  in  clusters  driven, 
And  all  the  glorious  pageantry  of  Heaven. 

15 


114  FROST. 

Low,  on  the  utmost  bound'ry  of  the  sight, 
The  rising  vapors  catch  the  silver  light ; 
Thence  Fancy  measures,  as  they  parting  fly, 
Which  first  will  throw  its  shadow  on  the  eye, 
Passing  the  source  of  light ;  and  thence  away, 
Succeeded  quick  by  brighter  still  than  they. 
Far  yet  above  these  wafted  clouds  are  seen 
(In  a  remoter  sky,  still  more  serene,) 
Others,  detached  in  ranges  through  the  air, 
Spotless  as  snow,  and  countless  as  they're  fair ; 
Scattered  immensely  wide  from  east  to  west, 
The  beauteous  semblance  of  a  flock  at  rest. 

BLOOMFIELD. 


FROST. 

FOR  every  shrub  and  every  blade  of  grass, 
And  every  pointed  thorn,  seemed  wrought  in  glass ; 
In  pearls  and  rubies  rich  the  hawthorns  show, 
While  through  the  ice  the  crimson  berries  glow ; 
The  thick-sprung  reeds  the  watery  marshes  yield 
Seem  polished  lances  in  a  hostile  field ; 
The  spreading  oak,  the  beech,  and  tow'ring  pine, 
Glazed  over,  in  the  freezing  ether  shine ; 


SNOW.  115 

The  frighted  birds  the  rattling  branches  shun, 
That  wave  and  glitter  in  the  distant  sun  ; 
When,  if  a  sudden  gust  of  wind  arise, 

The  brittle  forest  into  atoms  flies. 

PHILLIPS. 


SNOW. 

TO-MORROW  brings  a  change, — a  total  change  ! 
Which  even  now,  though  silently  performed, 
And  slowly,  and  by  most  unfelt,  the  face 
Of  universal  nature  undergoes. 
Fast  falls  a  fleecy  shower  :  the  downy  flakes 
Descending,  and  with  never-ceasing  lapse, 
Softly  alighting  upon  all  below, 
Assimilate  all  objects.     Earth  receives 
Gladly  the  thickening  mantle;  and  the  green 
And  tender  blade,  that  feared  the  chilling  blast, 
Escapes  unhurt  beneath  so  warm  a  veil. 

COWPEB.. 


116  SKATING. 

• 

FODDERING  CATTLE. 

THE  cattle  mourn  in  corners,  where  the  fence 
Screens  them  ;  and  seeni  half  petrified  to  sleep 
In  unrecumbent  sadness.     There  they  wait 
Their  wonted  fodder ;  not  like  hungering  man, 
Fretful  if  unsupplied  ;  but  silent,  meek, 
And  patient  of  the  slow-paced  swain's  delay. 
He  from  the  stack  carves  out  the  accustomed  load, 
Deep-plunging,  and  again  deep-plunging,  oft, 
His  broad  keen  knife  into  the  solid  mass ; 
Smooth  as  a  wall  the  upright  remnant  stands, 
With  such  undeviating  and  even  force 
He  severs  it  away  ;  no  needless  care, 
Lest  storms  should  overset  the  leaning  pile 

Deciduous,  or  its  own  unbalanced  weight. 

COWPER. 


S  KA  TING. 

AND  in  the  frosty  season,  when  the  sun 

Was  set,  and,  visible  for  many  a  mile, 

The  cottage-windows  through  the  twilight  blazed, 

I  heeded  not  the  summons :  happy  time 


SKATING.  117 

It  was  indeed  for  all  of  us  ;  for  me 

It  was  a  time  of  rapture  !     Clear  and  loud 

The  village-clock  tolled  six — I  wheeled  about, 

Proud  and  exulting,  like  an  untired  horse 

That  cares  not  for  his  home. — All  shod  with  steel 

We  hissed  along  the  polished  ice,  in  games 

Confederate,  imitative  of  the  chase 

And  woodland  pleasures, — the  resounding  horn, 

The  pack  loud-chiming,  and  the  hunted  hare. 

So  through  the  darkness  and  the  cold  we  flew, 

And  not  a  voice  was  idle  :  with  the  din 

Smitten,  the  precipices  rang  aloud  ; 

The  leafless  trees  and  every  icy  crag 

Tinkled  like  iron ;  while  the  distant  hills 

Into  the  tumult  sent  an  alien  sound 

Of  melancholy,  not  unnoticed,  while  the  stars, 

Eastward,  were  sparkling  clear,  and  in  the  west 

The  orange  sky  of  evening  died  away. 

Not  seldom  from  the  uproar  I  retired 
Into  a  silent  bay,  or  sportively 
Glanced  sideway,  leaving  the  tumultuous  throng, 
To  cut  across  the  reflex  of  a  star ; 
Image,  that,  flying  still  before  me,  gleamed 
Upon  the  glassy  plain  :  and  oftentimes, 


118  REFLECTIONS    UPON   WINTER. 

When  we  had  given  our  bodies  to  the  wind, 

And  all  the  shadowy  banks  on  either  side 

Came  sweeping  through  the  darkness,  spinning  still 

The  rapid  line  of  motion,  then  at  once 

Have  I,  reclining  back  upon  my  heels, 

Stopped  short ;  yet  still  the  solitary  cliffs 

Wheeled  by  me — even  as  if  the  earth  had  rolled 

With  visible  motion  her  diurnal  round  ! 

Behind  me  did  they  stretch  in  solemn  train, 

Feebler  and  feebler,  and  I  stood  and  watched 

Till  all  was  tranquil  as  a  summer  sea. 

WORDSWORTH. 


REFLECTIONS  UPON  WINTER. 

THOUGH  now  no  more  the  musing  ear 
Delights  to  listen  to  the  breeze, 
That  lingers  o'er  the  green-wood  shade, 
I  love  thee,  Winter  !  well. 

Sweet  are  the  harmonies  of  Spring, 
Sweet  is  the  Summer's  evening  gale, 
And  sweet  the  Autumnal  winds  that  shake 
The  many-colored  grove. 


EEFLECTIONS    UPON    WINTER.  119 

And  pleasant  to  the  sobered  soul 
The  silence  of  the  wintry  scene, 
When  Nature  shrouds  herself,  entranced 
In  deep  tranquillity. 

Not  undelightful  now  to  roam 
The  wild  heath  sparkling  on  the  sight ; 
Not  undelightful  now  to  pace 
The  forest's  ample  rounds, 

And  see  the  spangled  branches  shine, 
And  mark  the  moss  of  many  a  hue 
That  varies  the  old  tree's  brown  bark, 
Or  o'er  the  gray  stone  spreads. 

And  mark  the  clustered  berries  bright, 
Amid  the  holly's  gay  green  leaves ; 
The  ivy  round  the  leafless  oak, 
That  clasps  its  foliage  close. 

So  Virtue,  diffident  of  strength, 
Clings  to  Religion's  firmer  aid, 
And  by  Religion's  aid  upheld, 
Endures  calamity. 


120  THE    REDBREAST. 

Nor  void  of  beauties  now  the  spring, 
Whose  waters  hid  from  Summer  sun, 
Have  soothed  the  thirsty  pilgrim's  ear 
With  more  than  melody. 

The  green  moss  shines  with  icy  glare, 
The  long  grass  bends  its  spear-like  form, 
And  lovely  is  the  silvery  scene 
When  faint  the  sunbeams  smile. 

Reflection,  too,  may  love  the  hour 
When  Nature,  hid  in  Winter's  grave, 
No  more  expands  the  bursting  bud, 
Or  bids  the  flow'ret  bloom. 

For  Nature  soon  in  Spring's  best  charms, 
Shall  rise  revived  from  Winter's  grave, 
Expand  the  bursting  bud  again, 
And  bid  the  flower  re-bloom. 

SOUTHET. 


THE    REDBREAST. 

THE  cherished  fields 

Put  on  their  winter  robe  of  purest  white  : 
'Tis  brightness  all,  save  where  the  new  snow  melts 
Along  the  mazy  current 


THE    WOODMAN.  121 

The  fowls  of  heaven, 
Tamed  by  the  cruel  season,  crowd  around 
The  winnowing  store,  and  claim  the  little  boon 
Which  Providence  assigns  them.     One  alone. 
The  redbreast,  sacred  to  the  household  gods, 
Wisely  regardful  of  th'  embroiling  sky, 
In  joyless  fields  and  thorny  thickets,  leaves 
His  shivering  mates,  and  pays  to  trusted  man 
His  annual  visit.     Half-afraid,  he  first 
Against  the  window  beats ;  then,  brisk,  alights 
On  the  warm  hearth ;  then  hopping  o'er  the  floor, 
Eyes  all  the  smiling  family  askance, 
And  pecks,  and  starts,  and  wonders  where  he  is : 
Till,  more  familiar  grown,  the  table-crumbs 

Attract  his'slender  feet. 

THOMSON. 


THE    WOODMAN. 

FORTH  goes  the  woodman,  leaving  unconcerned 
The  cheerful  haunts  of  man  ;  to  wield  the  axe 
And  drive  the  wedge,  in  yonder  forest  drear, 
From  morn  to  eve  his  solitary  task. 
Shaggy,  and  lean,  and  shrewd  ;  with  pointed  ears, 
16 


\'1-1  A    WINTER    WALK. 

And  tail  cropped  short,  half  lurcher  and  half  cur, 
His  dog.  attends  him.      Close  behind  his  heel 
Now  creeps  he  slow  ;  and  now,  with  many  a  frisk, 
Wide  scampering,  snatches  up  the  drifted  snow 
With  ivory  teeth,  or  ploughs  it  with  his  snout ; 
Then  shakes  his  powdered  coat,  and  barks  for  joy. 
Heedless  of  all  his  pranks,  the  sturdy  churl 
Moves  right  toward  the  mark  ;  nor  stops  for  aught, 
But  now  and  then  with  pressure  of  his  thumb 
To  adjust  the  fragrant  charge  of  a  short  tube 
That  fumes  beneath  his  nose  :  the  trailing  cloud 
Streams  far  behind  him,  scenting  all  the  air. 

COWPER. 


A   WINTER   WALK. 

WHEN  winter  winds  are  piercing  chill, 

And  through  the  hawthorn  blows  the  gale, 

With  solemn  feet  I  tread  the  hill, 
That  overbrows  the  lonely  vale. 

O'er  the  bare  upland,  and  away 

Through  the  long  reach  of  desert  woods, 

The  embracing  sunbeams  chastely  play, 
And  gladden  these  deep  solitudes. 


A    WINTER    WALK.  123 

Where,  twisted  round  the  barren  oak, 
The  summer  vine  in  beauty  clung, 

And  summer  winds  the  stillness  broke, 
The  crystal  icicle  is  hung. 

Where,  from  their  frozen  urns,  mute  springs 

Pour  out  the  river's  gradual  tide, 
Shrilly  the  skater's  iron  rings, 

And  voices  fill  the  woodland  side. 

Alas  !  how  changed  from  the  fair  scene, 
When  birds  sang  out  their  mellow  lay, 

And  winds  were  soft,  and  woods  were  green, 
And  the  song  ceased  not  with  the  day. 

But  still  wild  music  is  abroad, 

Pale,  desert  woods  !  within  your  crowd  ; 
^.nd  gathering  winds,  in  hoarse  accord, 

Amid  the  vocal  reeds  pipe  loud. 

Ohill  airs  and  wintry  winds  !  my  ear 
Has  grown  familiar  with  your  song ; 

I  hear  it  in  the  opening  year, — 
I  listen,  and  it  cheers  me  long. 

LONGFELLOW. 


124  WINTER'S  FROST. 

WINTER'S  FROST. 

AN  icy  gale,  oft  shifting  o'er  the  pool, 
Breathes  a  blue  film,  and  in  its  mid  career 
Arrests  the  bickering  storm. 
Loud  rings  the  frozen  earth,  and  hard  reflects 
A  double  noise ;  while,  at  his  evening  watch, 
The  village  dog  deters  the  nightly  thief; 
The  heifer  lows  ;  the  distant  waterfall 
Swells  in  the  breeze ;  and  with  the  hasty  tread 
Of  traveller,  the  hollow-sounding  plain 
Shakes  from  afar 

It  freezes  on, 

Till  Morn,  late  rising  o'er  the  drooping  world, 
Lifts  her  pale  eye,  unjoyous.     Then  appears 
The  various  labor  of  the  silent  Night : 
Prone  from  the  dripping  eave,  and  dumb  cascade, 
Whose  idle  torrents  only  seem  to  roar ; 
The  pendent  icicle,  the  frost-work  fair, 
Where  transient  hues  and  fancied  figures  rise ; 
Wide-spouted  o'er  the  hill,  the  frozen  brook, 
A  livid  tract,  cold  gleaming  on  the  morn. 

THOMSON. 


THE    SNOW-CLOGGED    WAIN.  125 

WINTER  TRIUMPHANT. 

THE  dead  leaves  strew  the  forest-walk, 
And  withered  are  the  pale  wild  flowers ; 

The  frost  hangs  blackening  on  the  stalk, 
The  dew-drops  fall  in  frozen  showers, 
Gone  are  the  Spring's  green  sprouting  bowers, 

Gone  Summer's  rich  and  mantling  vines, 
And  Autumn  with  her  yellow  hours 

On  hill  and  plain  no  longer  shines. 

BRAINAKD. 


THE   SNOW-CLOGGED  WAIN. 

ILL  fares  the  traveller  now,  and  he  that  stalks 

In  ponderous  boots  beside  his  reeking  team. 

The  wain  goes  heavily,  impeded  sore 

By  congregated  loads  adhering  close 

To  the  clogged  wheels ;  and  in  its  sluggish  pace 

Noiseless  appears  a  moving  hill  of  snow. 

The  toiling  steeds  expand  the  nostril  wide, 

While  every  breath,  by  respiration  strong 

Forced  downward,  is  consolidated  soon 

Upon  their  jutting  chests.     He,  formed  to  bear 


126  WINTER'. 

The  pelting  brunt  of  the  tempestuous  night, 
With  half-shut  eyes  and  puckered  cheeks,  and  teeth 
Presented  bare  against  the  storm,  plods  on. 
One  hand  secures  his  hat,  save  when  with  both 
He  brandishes  his  pliant  length  of  whip, 
Resounding  oft,  and  never  heard  in  vain. 

COWPEK. 


WINTER. 

WHEN  icicles  hang  by  the  wall, 

And  Dick  the  shepherd  blows  his  nail, 
And  Tom  bears  logs  into  the  hall, 
And  milk  comes  frozen  home  in  pail. 
When  blood  is  nipt,  and  ways  be  foul, 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 
Tu-whit,  tu-whoo,  a  merry  note, 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 

When  all  aloud  the  wind  doth  blow, 
And  coughing  drowns  the  parson's  saw, 

And  birds  sit  brooding  in  the  snow, 
And  Marian's  nose  looks  red  and  raw ; 


WINTER    SERENADE.  127 

Then  roasted  crabs  hiss  in  the  bowl, 
And  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 
Tu-whit,  to-whoo,  a  merry  note, 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 

SHAKSPEABE. 


WINTEE  SERENADE. 

THE  minstrels  played  their  Christmas  tune 
To-night  beneath  my  cottage  eaves ; 
While,  smitten  by  a  lofty  moon, 
The  encircling  laurels,  thick  with  leaves, 
Gave  back  a  rich  and  dazzling  sheen, 
That  overpowered  their  natural  green. 

Through  hill  and  valley  every  breeze 

Had  sunk  to  rest  with  folded  wings ; 

Keen  was  the  air,  but  could  not  freeze, 

Nor  check  the  music  of  the  strings ; 

So  stout  and  hardy  were  the  band 

That  scraped  the  chords  with  strenuous  hand. 

And  who  but  listened  ? — till  was  paid 
Respect  to  every  inmate's  claim ; 


128  WINTER    SERENADE. 

The  greeting  given,  the  music  played 
In  honor  of  each  household  name, 
Duly  pronounced  with  lusty  call, 
And  "Merry  Christmas"  wished  to  all! 

WOKDSWORTH. 


THE   END. 


IMUNTKD    BY    I.    ASHMKAD. 


A     000695150 


m. 


